“What if they all intentionally crash you into the wall and make you bleed?”
He smiled at that. “They’re called boards, Bree.”
“Whatever. I doubt that’s going to happen. You’re going to let that guy and his roughing the passer keep you from reconnecting?”
Now he was laughing. “Just roughing, Bree. No passer.”
“You know what I mean. It was just a hit, right?”
“It was personal.”
“You don’t know that.”
He hummed knowingly. “Kind of do.”
“So be bigger than the hit. The Clint McCarthy I know isn’t worried about if everybody will like him. He holds his head up high, works hard, and keeps being the same good guy he’s always been. People tend to like him anyway when he’s himself.”
He grunted in satisfaction. “Do they?”
“Yep. I do, at least.”
Her words sank into him like rays of the sun, and he was momentarily unable to speak.
He liked her too. A lot more than he had ever expected to.
“Did I lose you?” she asked when he didn’t respond.
“No,” he assured her, his throat aching with the word. “No, you didn’t lose me.”
“Good.”
Suddenly he had the feeling they weren’t talking about cell phone service, but he couldn’t be sure.
Wanted to be sure.
He slowed the car as the parking lot neared, and he pulled in, a familiar brunette sitting with her ankles crossed on a raised cement planter. She’d braided her hair loosely over one shoulder, and her fleece jacket was only half zipped. She waved at him and stowed her phone in the pocket of her jacket, her legs swinging just a little.
Comfortable, beautiful, warm, natural Bree . . .
He loved the very sight of her.
Smiling, he got out of his car and headed directly for her. “Hello, beautiful.”
She gave him a cheeky grin and hopped down from her seat. “Hiya.” She looked up at him as he neared her, her eyes searching his. “You okay?”
Clint nodded as he reached for a long strand of hair dancing in the fall breeze. “Yeah,” he murmured, twisting it behind her ear. “I’m okay.”
Bree leaned into his touch, then slipped her arms around his waist and hugged herself to him, nestling her face against his shoulder without any hesitation whatsoever. “Good.”
His arms instantly wrapped around her, cradling her, and he wished he could somehow pull her into himself, carry her with him wherever he went so he would never lose the feeling of having her right here. He laid his head atop hers, letting himself sigh as he held her. “Yeah,” he said again. “This is good.”
Her arms tightened around him further still in response.
She’d bitten her nails down to almost-painful stubs.
Trista would be horrified. She’d completely understand, but she’d be horrified.
There wasn’t anything Bree could do about that now. Ever since she’d said goodbye to Clint yesterday morning before he’d left for Denver, her nerves had shot up to an all-time high.
Well, maybe not all-time, given the number of times Ryker had been injured over the course of his career, one of which had actually scared her to the point of tears, but she was certainly anxious enough now. She had barely eaten breakfast this morning, lunch had been laughable, and Penny had physically taken away her phone to stop her from incessantly texting Clint.
Now that they were only a few minutes from the start of the game, Bree had her phone back.
Mostly for emergencies.
But would anybody know to contact Bree in the case of an emergency?
They’d call the McCarthys, not her. As they should, for sure, but would the McCarthys call her?
Her fingers flew along the keypad of her phone, Grizz’s number popping into the contact line.
“No,” she muttered to herself, forcing her fingers to stop. She exhaled long and slow three times. “No.” She deleted her frantic message quickly before shoving her phone in the pocket of her hoodie.
Clint’s hoodie.
It was stupid, but he’d left it in her car the other day, and she hadn’t exactly gotten around to giving it back.
She might never.
It was large, it was warm, and it smelled like him. At a moment like this, that was all she could want. Short of having him here with her, this was perfect.
As calm as she had been when he’d first brought up going to Chicago and seeing the guys from Northbrook, her mind had spun since then. He’d opened up eventually, after he’d simply held her for ages, and he had given her the rundown of each of the guys he had been closest to. It had been an interesting conversation; she could hear the note of regret in his voice, and the almost longing tone when he spoke of their time as a team.
And then to know that Zane had hit him like that? On purpose?
Clint didn’t have a good explanation for it.
And now he was playing another former teammate. He’d assured Bree that Dice—Declan—was very different, but it didn’t make her feel any better.
She kept having visions of even more brutal hits that would end with Clint lying unmoving on the ice like the end of a particularly horrible boxing match. She suspected that was a touch dramatic on her end, but as her experience with hockey was limited to that first game with Clint, she really didn’t know what to expect. He’d come away unscathed from his games since then, it was true, but he hasn’t been playing old teammates with a potential grudge.
Why would anyone hold a grudge against Clint? What could he have done?
Bree swallowed hard, her fingers lacing and twisting with each other over and over. Had anybody ever died from an injury in hockey?
“Whoop!” Penny dashed into the room, decked out in black and purple Hawks gear. “Game time! Game time! Let’s go, Hawks!” She looked at Bree with a bright, vivacious grin. “You ready for this?”
No, she wasn’t, but she forced a smile anyway. “Absolutely!”
The microwave dinged, and Penny ran over to it. “Popcorn’s done! Want a drink?”
Bree nodded, but knew she wouldn’t drink much of whatever it was. She stared at the TV in apprehension, waiting for the commercials to end, knowing the game would be on next.
“All right,” Penny said as she brought the bowl of popcorn and some drinks over. “I’ll order some chicken wings for the second period, but this should tide us over for now. Here you go.”
Taking the chilled can, Bree managed another smile. “Thanks, Pen.”
Penny eyed her, then shook her head. “Where is your team spirit, Breezy? Turn around.”
Bree did as she was told and felt her hair being pulled back into a ponytail. “What are you doing?”
“I did not grow up a Hawks fan for nothing,” came the huffed response. “My sister and I made these hair ties for a fundraiser when we were kids, and to this day I have dozens. The least you can do is wear one.”
The ponytail was pulled right, and Bree pulled out her phone to check her reflection in the camera. Strips of purple and black fabric stuck out at odd angles from the band, and if she tilted her head down enough, she could see a plastic hawk fastened to the center of it.
Clint would have a field day if he saw this.
“Perfect!” Bree said with a laugh, grinning up at her roommate.
“I know.” Penny folded her arms, her expression smug. The theme song for the sports network blared from the TV, the camera panning around the inside of the Denver arena—a sea of green and white, their fans clearly as passionate as the Hawks fans had been at home.
Bree exhaled slowly as she saw players skating on the ice in warmup, wondering which was Clint. The camera wasn’t close enough to see jersey numbers, so she could only guess.
Please don’t get hurt . . . Please don’t get hurt . . .
“Amy!” Penny bellowed, making Bree jump. “Get out here! Our boyfriend is on!”
“Your what?” Bree asked
with a laugh.
“Boyfriend,” Amy repeated as she hurried out of her bedroom and into the living room. “Oh good, you made snacks.”
Bree looked between her roommates in bewilderment as Amy took a fistful of popcorn. “Who’s your boyfriend, and why are you sharing him?”
“Clint,” they said together.
Now she was totally lost. “Excuse me?”
Amy gestured for Penny to explain as she tossed some popcorn in her mouth and situated herself on the couch.
“Apartment boyfriend,” Penny told her without concern. “We concede that he is your particular boyfriend, but as Amy and I are currently unencumbered by any such attachment, we claim him as ours when it suits us. It’s a status thing.”
“I see,” Bree murmured, her lips forming an affectionate smile for these two, even if their antics were a little ridiculous. “Does Clint know this?”
Amy shook her head firmly. “Nope, but we’ll tell him next time he comes over. We’re the family-and-friends-package candidates, so we should have reserved seating at games. Apartment boyfriend gets a fan club if he goes along.”
It was one of the silliest things she’d ever heard of, but she would let it go, especially since it made her less nervous for the moment.
There was one thing that she ought to clarify, however.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Her roommates gave her the exact same deadpan expression. “Uh-huh,” they said together, their tone disbelieving.
“He’s not!” she insisted. “We’ve never . . . said that.”
Amy waved her hand dismissively. “Technicality. That boy is yours, babe. Lucky. Ooh, I do like me a goalie . . . ”
Bree bit her lip as she returned her attention to the TV, the announcers saying something about the Hawks’ goalie, John Cheswick.
“Is he single, Bree?”
“No idea,” she replied with a smile. “I don’t know any of them.”
Penny grunted in thought just once. “Consider this your next assignment, then. Get to know them.”
“Noted.”
She wouldn’t mind finding out the details of Clint’s teammates and their relationship status. It would be a small price to pay for being with him.
She would love to get to know the team. To be more involved with them. To be part of something.
With him.
They might not have definitions yet, but she would be his girlfriend if he asked. She already considered herself his . . . something.
Whatever this something was.
But was he hers?
She knew full well what went on among some pro athletes when they traveled, and a lot of the time when they were at home. Ryker might have protected her from the nitty-gritty details, but she was no fool. Rules and regulations for a team were flimsy at best, depending on the coach and team culture. Frat boys with athletic ability, she’d once heard her brother call them.
Clint wasn’t that kind of guy, but that didn’t mean he’d feel particularly attached to her. He could go out with the guys, meet some gorgeous woman who’d fit on the arm of a professional-hockey player, and get splashed across the headlines of magazines, tabloids, and websites. It would fit with his life now.
Quiet, naïve, plain, unimpressive Bree Stone wouldn’t fit. She’d just finish her education, start her career, and let the people who belonged in the spotlight stay there.
No need to make a fuss.
Why should she bother?
The announcers’ voices faded on the TV, and she focused on the screen, her heart pounding as she realized that Clint was right there.
Front and center.
Exhale . . .
The puck was dropped, and it shot over to Hotch, who raced forward with it. A green player was immediately on him, his stick reaching out to interfere with his. The puck moved in Clint’s direction, but a green player got to it first and started towards the center of the ice.
Bree tried to follow the play as best as she could, reacting a few milliseconds behind Penny’s outbursts, usually in the same vein, as Penny clearly knew more about the sport. For the most part, she followed well enough, but the constant switch of players in and out of the boxes while play was going on made zero sense. Whistles were blown at random times, and she couldn’t understand why for the most part.
Someone would need to walk her through this sport at some point if she ever wanted to get anywhere.
Clint could not be with someone so ignorant of the sport that was his life.
“Who’d you say he knows on the Denver team?” Penny asked, sitting on the edge of the couch and clapping about something in the game.
Bree cleared her throat, making herself focus on the present, not insecure what-ifs parading in the way of enjoying Clint’s game. “Dice. Declan something.”
Amy hummed in satisfaction. “Declan Rivera. Right there.” She pointed at the screen, to a defender currently scuffling over the puck with one of Clint’s teammates on the boards. “Can I cheer for him?”
“No,” Penny and Bree said as one.
“Pity.”
Clint was suddenly back in the game, somehow clambering over the box and racing down the ice with Fig and Hotch, the pair of them moving to their respective sides. Clint seemed to fly between three of the Denver players, almost like a pinball in a machine, darting back and forth as he tracked the puck. Hotch and Fig closed in, but they had their own Denver players to contend with.
The puck suddenly shot forward, past Clint and the others, and Bree gasped loudly, her hands clenching into fists. But one of the Hawks’ defenders scooped it up in his stick, sliding it from side to side before firing it back towards the opposite goal.
Fig took it, raced forward, then, for whatever reason, sent it soaring around the rink behind the opposite goal.
“Why?” Bree yelled, her hands flying out with the question.
“Wrapping it is fine,” Penny assured her without looking. “See? Hotch is there. Watch out!”
Hotch, who had gotten to the puck first, now had two players basically blocking him in.
“Get it out!” Penny bellowed.
On command, the puck moved out of Hotch’s control and was easily scooped up by one of the Hawk defenders, who moved it towards center ice, and Clint.
Clint weaved one way, then the other, then dropped it towards the other defender.
What was this? Why take it back into their own territory?
A lone green player followed the puck, hovering close to center ice, watching the defenders, who shot it between each other once, twice . . .
Then the puck shot forward again, directly to Fig, who sped towards the goal, crossing the puck to Clint, flying up on his right.
“Go, go!” Bree urged, her fists flying to her chin.
Clint suddenly veered to the far right, away from the goal and defenders, Hotch coming up behind him.
A Denver player was hot on Clint’s heels, though, and suddenly slammed him into the boards, Clint’s stick flying out of his hands even as the puck moved to Hotch.
“No!” Bree yelped as Clint went down on the ice.
A whistle blew as the puck suddenly went screeching past the goal without going in.
Bree didn’t care. She kept her eyes on Clint.
The defender who hit him was back, a hand on Clint’s pads, hoisting him to his feet. The guy said something to him, and Clint grinned, of all things, before his helmet was ruffled almost like his hair would have been.
Bree found herself smiling as Clint jokingly elbowed the guy, taking his stick back from one of his own players. He was blood free and still smiling, and he said something over his shoulder.
Relief washed over Bree, and she sat back hard against the couch.
“Huh,” Penny said as the players all lined up for another faceoff. “Maybe we can cheer for Dice.”
“That was Dice?” Bree looked at the screen hard, thinking back as play resumed.
“Uh, yeah.” Amy snorted loudly, m
unching on more popcorn. “Told ya. I like that guy.”
“We can’t like him while we’re cheering for our boyfriend,” Penny reminded her. “Any other team, fine, just not ours.”
“Okay, I guess . . . Ooh, nice save, my next boyfriend!”
Bree rolled her eyes but settled in for the rest of the game. If Dice wasn’t going to target Clint the way Zane had, she could relax a little. The outcome of this one game wouldn’t change anything, and Clint was an amazing player, so he could handle himself.
She smiled slightly as he returned to the box, even if the camera continued on the play at hand and the new line freshly in. The puck moved so quickly back and forth on the ice, and the players so freely from end to end at any given moment, that it was hard to keep track of which team was better and if either team outplayed the other.
What made a good game or a bad game? Outcomes helped, she was sure, and if he scored a goal, it was probably a good day, but when goals weren’t being scored, how would she know?
These were the sort of questions she would need to ask him if she actually wanted to be his girlfriend. She had experienced her brother’s moods after games, whether good or bad, and had always tried to modify her behavior accordingly. Usually she knew what to expect based on the game.
But that was baseball.
She knew baseball.
What about hockey?
“Hey, Penny,” she suddenly said, sitting up again, her eyes on the screen. “I need your help with something.”
“Now?” Penny groaned. She gestured at the TV. “Our boyfriend is on. Your boyfriend is on. We’ve got enough to do.”
Bree grinned at that, remarkably not even blushing. “I know that. This is for our boyfriend.”
That perked both of her roommates up. They looked at each other, then at her. “Yes?”
Bree glanced at the TV, biting down on her lip with sudden excitement. “I need you to teach me hockey.”
Amy belted one loud laugh, and Penny’s brow furrowed with apology. “Oh, sweetie. I don’t play.”
Now Bree laughed. “I don’t want to play hockey. I want to understand hockey.” She gestured to the game, where a fight was breaking out, thankfully not involving Clint. “I was raised on baseball. I don’t understand anything here, and for Clint, I need to know.”
Faceoff (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 1) Page 9
