Silence wrapped around them, suffocating him in the small space. His lungs seized again, threatening to stop working altogether as the space grew even smaller. Was he suddenly claustrophobic? Small spaces had never bothered him before, so why now?
Because he'd never been trapped with Lori before.
Trapped? No, he wasn't trapped—he'd followed her on here of his own free will. But why? What did he hope to accomplish? They hadn't seen each other for eight years, hadn't even talked in all that time. Yes, there had been a few brief calls when he first moved to Vegas, but they were awkward, strained, filling him with remorse until he simply stopped answering.
Coward.
A fitting word, describing what he'd done. How he'd acted. It was easier to let the friendship die, easier to let his heart shrivel up instead of maintaining long-distance communication when he knew nothing would ever come of it.
When he knew nothing would ever come of them. There was no them—there could never be a them. Not all those years ago.
And not now, not after the things he'd done. Not after how he had treated her. He was a different man now—and not one the woman beside him would want to know.
"How's your leg?"
Her quiet question caught him off-guard, pulled him from the suffocating grip of a hundred different regrets. He darted a quick look at her, then glanced down at his leg. "My leg? It's fine. Why—"
"Must have been a quick recovery then." One corner of her mouth quirked in a quick smile before she schooled her face into a carefully blank mask.
Corbin frowned then shook his head. "Recovery? I wasn't hurt—"
He snapped his mouth closed with an audible click, remembering too late. How could he forget? The game had ended less than sixty minutes ago—the game where he had feigned an injury to his leg so their unusual EBUG—emergency back-up goalie—could play. The ruse had worked—even if Coach Donovan had given him a look that clearly said he wasn't buying the act for a second.
It didn't matter because Shannon Wiley—the goalie for the Chesapeake Blades—had been put in during the third period. She had stopped all nine shots that Pittsburgh had sent her way while the Banners added two more to the scoreboard, winning the game four-to-one. But he couldn't admit what he'd done to anyone, especially not to the woman standing so close next to him.
He forced a grimace and reached down to rub his left thigh. "I'll be fine. Just a minor pull—"
"It was your other leg." She didn't hide her smile this time as she pointed to his right leg. "Nice try, though. And I'm impressed. By what you did, I mean."
Caleb straightened with a sigh, his gaze not quite meeting hers. "I did nothing. It was just a pull, eh? Nothing more—"
"We both know you're lying so don't deny it. What you did—" She tilted her head to the side, her thick hair falling over her shoulder with the movement. "That was really sweet of you. Honorable."
Corbin stiffened, her words slicing through him and leaving him chilled. He looked away, each word clipped when he spoke. "There is nothing sweet or honorable about me."
To his surprise, she laughed. Not a full laugh, just a whisper of a chuckle, but her amusement was clear. "Believing your own bad press, I see."
His head snapped to the side, his brows lowered in a frown as he stared at her. Why did a smile play around the corners of her mouth? Why did the same amusement he heard in her voice dance in the depths of those beautiful amber eyes? He shook his head, ready to deny whatever she thought she knew, ready to tell her she needed to look closer.
He wasn't the same man he'd been all those years ago. Not man—boy. Twenty-two, yes, but still a boy. Filled with hopes and dreams. Still too innocent. Still wanting to believe—
He shook his head again and reached for the control panel to his left. His finger jammed a button near the bottom. Once, twice, the air growing thicker, suffocating him until the door finally eased open. He shoved his hand through the small space and pushed against the metal panel, forcing it to open faster until he finally stumbled out. Dank air, tinged with the mingled odors of must and gasoline, filled his lungs. He pulled in a deep breath and held it, then quickly turned to face Lori.
Corbin ignored the surprise on her face, ignored the flash of emotion in her eyes as she stared at him, her full lips slightly parted. He shook his head a final time, the movement sharp, adamant, filled with denial. "There's nothing sweet about me, ma cocotte. You'd do well to remember that. I'm not the same person I was all those years ago."
He spun on his heel, barely resisting the urge to run, to escape, to never look back. Her muted gasp stopped him and he turned around just as the elevator doors started sliding closed, their soft hiss nearly drowning out her words.
"Neither am I."
Chapter Two
Lori grabbed the chrome handrail then sagged against the wall of the elevator. Oh God, she was shaking, inside and out. Had Corbin been able to tell?
No, she didn't think so. She doubted if he noticed anything, not with the way he had looked. Shell-shocked. Dazed. Like maybe he'd taken one too many hits in the head and wasn't sure where he was.
She could totally relate to that.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, inhaling deeply through her nose until her pulse slowed down to something just a little under Mach speed. It had been so tempting to turn around and run the other way when he first stepped off the elevator. If she was honest with herself, the only reason she hadn't done that was because her feet had been glued to the floor. She hadn't expected to see him—she rarely had any up-close-and-personal contact with the players, not when most of her work took place in a tiny cubicle behind a computer screen, or behind the screen of one of her phones or tablets as she sat with the crowd and watched the game.
Seeing Corbin tonight had been a fluke. If she hadn't been so preoccupied earlier, so excited for the social media storm she knew was coming, she would have never locked her keys in the car. And if she hadn't locked her keys in the car, she wouldn't have been backtracking to go upstairs and find Uncle Ian. But she had been preoccupied, and she was heading upstairs—and that's when the elevator doors opened and out stepped Corbin.
She froze, pure and simple. She wasn't proud of it, would be embarrassed to admit it out loud. But there were no witnesses in this tiny elevator, nobody to see her or hear her.
She took one final deep breath and opened her eyes. "Oh. My. God."
The three words came out as a little squeak, making her wonder again how she had managed to sound so put-together when she'd been talking to Corbin. Or maybe that was just her imagination, maybe she had sounded as squeaky and surprised and stunned then as she did now.
No, she didn't think so. And if she did, Corbin certainly hadn't noticed—he looked too stunned to notice anything. Well, except for her necklace.
She reached up and curled the pendant in her palm, the silver cool against her warm flesh. Had he recognized it? Yes, he must have. He was the one who had given it to her, as a replacement for the cheaper necklace she had lost while cleaning out stalls one day. He had called it her good luck charm, teasing her about it in his softly accented voice even after she explained what it was.
Why had she worn it today?
Silly question. She had worn it because she had wanted a little extra luck, because she knew there was going to be a total shitstorm on social media once the Banners announced tonight's EBUG. As one of the digital media specialists for the Baltimore Banners, it was her job to handle the shitstorms—both the good and the bad. Because yeah, her job wasn't nearly as glamorous as the title implied.
Not that it mattered, because she loved her job. She didn't need—or want—the glamour. That wasn't her, never had been. But sometimes, like tonight, the perks completely rocked.
Except when shitstorms hit, of course. And yes, they were already hitting. The almost non-stop buzzing of the two phones in her tote bag were a testament to that. She'd already replied to quite a few comments, most of which were upbeat
and positive. Her staff of two would also be responding if needed.
Not to the nasty ones. Those, they usually never answered at all, usually just let them go—unless they fell into the extreme category. Those, they deleted—no matter how tempting it was to snap back a snarky reply. But that was against policy. So, she'd go home and review the comments and just start deleting the negative ones and—yeah, she was doing her best to avoid the five-ton elephant taking up space in the elevator with her.
Corbin Gauthier.
Just saying his name to herself sent a myriad of emotions washing over her. Hope. Happiness. Sadness. Regret. Pity—for her and him. Anger. Frustration. Confusion.
Definitely confusion, which was nothing new. She'd always felt confused around Corbin, never knowing which way was up, never knowing exactly where she stood with him. Friends—but more than friends. Only not really, because he had refused to act on whatever it was that had been between them all those years ago.
How many years had it been since he left? She mentally rolled her eyes. There was no sense pretending she didn't know, because she did: eight years. Eight years since she had raced to his condo only to find him packed and ready to go, standing outside while he waited for a car service to pick him up.
Eight years since she had thrown herself at him, finally kissing him the way she'd always wanted to.
Eight years since he had kissed her back...then walked away.
Lori gave herself a mental shake then leaned forward and punched the button to take the elevator up. She had been so young and naive then, so convinced that she could persuade him to...to what? She still wasn't sure, even after all these years.
But it didn't matter, because one thing hadn't changed: her attraction to the shy, quiet goalie, and the pull she still felt toward him. And she was fairly certain she wasn't the only one who felt it.
Not that Corbin was the same shy, quiet goalie she remembered. No, he had definitely changed. His body had filled out, all hard planes and sharp angles that made him seem bigger than she remembered. Even his accent had changed, almost unnoticeable now—except when he had cursed.
There was an edge to him that hadn't been there before, an edge that went beyond the physical changes like the slightly off-center line of his nose or the jagged scar by his chin. He seemed more jaded, more cynical. What was it he had said?
There was nothing sweet or honorable about him.
Yes, he was definitely believing his own bad press, no doubt about it.
She had kept tabs on him over the years. Not obsessively, not always checking or searching for tidbits about him. Not that any searching was needed—he'd developed a reputation by the end of his first season in Vegas, one that had kept gossip-mongers dancing in glee. Moody, temperamental. Partying a little too much, getting into trouble off the ice. There had been a quick Vegas wedding to some leggy model that had sent Lori into a brooding depression for several weeks, followed by a quickie divorce a year later that had made her dance with shameful glee.
Not that it mattered because by then, more than two years had gone by since she had last seen him.
Then he'd been traded again, to Winnipeg this time. The rumor-mill had been churning for a short time after that, only to eventually settle down—until a huge bar fight brought him back under the microscope. More rumors followed, along with another messy relationship, a very public break-up, and a wedding that never took place. Another scuffle, this one hushed so quickly that she still didn't know the details. Another trade, this time to Colorado, then more silence.
Bad press, indeed.
She knew some of it was true—it always was, in cases like this. The challenge was in peeling through the layers and reading between the lines, digging deep until finding the kernels of truth wrapped up in all the trimmings of innuendo. Not that she'd done that—by then, she had moved on. Graduated college, accepted her first public relations job, planned out what she wanted to do in the coming years.
Fast forward a few more years, and she'd finally been hired by the Banners as a digital media specialist. Now, she was being groomed for promotion to Digital Media Coordinator—which was essentially what she was already doing, only with fancier title, a few more responsibilities...and just a little more money.
No, Corbin wasn't the only one who had changed. She wasn't the sweet innocent girl he used to know. She had grown, matured, become more assertive, more confident.
Lori snorted, the indelicate sound echoing around her. Yeah, right. That's why she was standing here, daydreaming about the way things had been ten years ago, when she had first met Corbin. That's why she was chasing down her uncle in the hopes he had a spare key to her car.
Because she was mature that way.
She rolled her eyes then adjusted the bag hanging from her shoulder as she stepped off the elevator. The heels of her shoes clicked against the polished tile of the floor, the noise bouncing off the painted concrete walls. Voices drifted from an office at the far end of the wall. She hesitated, her head cocked to the side as she listened. Yes, she was pretty sure that was Uncle Ian's voice—but she had no idea who he was talking to, only that the conversation sounded clipped, angry.
She hesitated for a few more seconds, then took a deep breath and headed toward her uncle's office. The voices were clearer now and yes, no doubt about it, Uncle Ian was definitely not happy.
"I told you before I wasn't happy with him coming back. And I don't think making him our starting goalie is the best decision—"
"It is, and you'd realize it if you got over whatever personal vendetta you have against him."
Lori froze. They were discussing Corbin! Uncle Ian and...she frowned, her mind searching for a face to match the other voice. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her groan when she realized it was George McAdams, the General Manager of the Banners. Shit. Shit, shit, shoot. She needed to back away before they realized she was standing out here, listening to their conversation.
There was sharp thud, like something being slammed against a desk. A hand? Or maybe a clipboard. "I don't have a personal vendetta."
"You do, Donovan. And you need to get over it. I want Gauthier in as primary."
"I thought I was the coach."
"You are."
"Then let me do my job."
Lori grimaced then backed up a step, then another and another, making sure she put her weight on her toes so the stupid heels wouldn't make any noise. They couldn't know she was out here listening. Her uncle couldn't know—
"I always let you do your job—as long as you're making rational decisions." The sound of a chair squeaking floated from the office, followed by heavy footsteps. And oh no, whatever meeting they were having was coming to an end. Lori had five seconds—maybe—to disappear. She glanced around, her frantic gaze searching for the quickest possible escape.
Only there was none.
Her mind scrambled, coming up with a desperate plan. Maybe it would work.
It had to work.
She took a few more hurried steps back toward the elevator, hoping they'd think she just got here if they saw her. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat, calling out just as the two men stepped out of the office. "Coach Donovan? Oh, there you are. I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting."
She plastered the brightest smile she could conjure on her face, hoping she looked more innocent than she felt. Uncle Ian's eyes narrowed, letting her know she had failed.
No, he definitely hadn't bought the act. McAdams, on the other hand, seemed totally convinced. He stepped toward her, a small smile deepening the lines of his face as he dropped a hand on her shoulder.
"Lori. Nice to see you again. How are things going? Still enjoying the job?"
"Yeah. Yes. It's wonderful, thank you."
"Perfect. Just what I wanted to hear." He dropped his hand then turned back to her uncle. "We can continue this discussion when you have a clearer head."
Ian nodded, but she could see the glint of impatien
ce in his eyes. Did McAdams see it as well? Probably not, because he already had his back to them, waiting for the elevator, humming to himself. Or maybe he was muttering, Lori couldn't tell.
She waited until the doors closed behind him then released a quick sigh of relief and turned back to her uncle. One look at his face caused the sigh to lodge in her throat, making her cough.
"Nice try. McAdams may have bought your innocent act but I know better." He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned against the doorframe. "How much did you hear?"
"Um, nothing. Honest." She grimaced under the weight of his stare and finally looked away, feeling much the same as she had the night he'd caught her making out behind the barn with that goofball Dale when she was sixteen. "Okay, just a little bit. I, uh, take it you're not happy with Corbin being here."
"You know I'm not. And you know why, too."
"Uncle Ian, that was a long time ago. And nothing happened. Ever. I don't know why you have such a hard time believing that—"
"I never said I didn't believe it."
"Then why are you still so upset?"
"Because he should have never been hanging around you at all, period."
"We were just friends."
"You were too young."
"I was eighteen!"
"It doesn't matter. I told him to stay away and he didn't listen—"
"You didn't have any right to tell him anything!" Her angry words bounced off the concrete walls, echoing back with a sharpness that made her wince. She took a deep breath, released it as she ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell—"
"I know." He kept watching her, his dark gaze pinning her in place, his eyes and face blank of all emotion. She looked away, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and reminded herself she was an adult now, even if his look did make her feel like a reckless teenager.
"It's just—Uncle Ian, that was ten years ago. I'm twenty-eight. A grown woman. I have my own life now. A career. I'm capable of making responsible, mature decisions."
Game Misconduct_A Baltimore Banners Hockey Romance Page 2
