by Lynda Aicher
“What about Sheila?” Defense was the best offense.
His laugh was rough with appreciation and something she couldn’t define. “Smooth.” He finished his beer and tucked the empty into the recycling bin under the sink. He pulled out all his charm and shoved it into his smile when he turned back to her. “Truce?”
“Fine.” She could never stay annoyed or mad at him. “Truce.”
“Don’t let Roller push you around.” He just had to get in that last bit of brotherly advice.
She heaved a sigh. “Like I haven’t learned a thing from my four imposing brothers? I know how to protect myself.”
A sadness fell over his expression as he studied her. “Yeah. You do.” His grin was back before she could question him on what he meant. “Hey. Does this mean you’re going to become a hockey fan finally?”
“As if.” Her scoff covered her own smile. “Besides, it’s not like I hate the sport. I just have better things to do than spend hours watching men fight over a little black disc.”
“It’s a puck,” Aiden called at her back as she left the kitchen. “And we don’t fight over it.”
“Oh, really?” She shot him a smirk over her shoulder. “So what are you fighting over then?”
“We… It’s not… Crap,” he sputtered out.
“That’s what I thought.” She bounded past her parents who were watching Jeopardy now. “I have to study.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” her mom cautioned, a warning she probably didn’t even register she’d been saying it for so many years.
She met Aiden’s gaze over their parents’ heads. This was her home. They’d all given up so much because of her cancer. Extras had been nonexistent growing up and even now, her parents made do with twenty-year-old furniture and outdated carpeting. Never once had she heard them complain about the medical bills that’d forbade any luxuries. No one had.
They’d squeezed five kids into a three-bedroom ranch with a generous basement and raised them all with the family values they’d learned from their parents. Her mother was a first-generation American Irish Catholic with seven siblings. Dad was lucky he’d gotten her to stop with five kids. Big families equaled a home for her.
Jacqui sent a smile to her brother and ducked down the stairs to her sanctuary. The basement bedroom had been the coveted spot from the time it’d been added, and she’d scored it as soon as Aiden had moved out. She’d just never expected to still be there when she was twenty-five years old.
Chapter Five
“Pick up your feet and get moving, Roller!”
The harsh call from the defensive line coach was a gibe Henrik wanted to ignore, yet he dug deep and powered forward to cut off the offensive attack. His thighs burned with the effort as he stretched, stick extended to knock the puck away from Shaffer.
Henrik chased the puck down and blasted it back up the ice to Hauke. The whistle blew, play coming to a stop after Hauke made a weak goal shot on the other end of the rink.
“That’s it,” Coach O called. “Huddle up.”
Henrik tapped Shaffer on the shoulder. “Nice playing.” The young’un hadn’t been cut from the roster yet, and there was a good chance he’d make it on the opening game lineup if he kept playing like he had.
“Thanks.” Shaffer unsnapped his helmet, grin wide. “I almost beat your tired old ass.”
“You wish.” There was no way Henrik would admit it was true.
“I know.” Shaffer winked and skated away before Henrik could respond.
The cocky little shit. Henrik shook his head, sweat flying. He came to a stop near the bench and yanked his helmet off. The two-hour practice had followed a one-hour conditioning workout, and his hunger was gnawing its annoyance at his stomach lining.
His mind wandered the entire time Coach O was giving his rundown on the practice. What they needed to work on, who needed to hustle more, how Detroit was going to stomp on them tomorrow night if they didn’t fix this or that or whatever. His upcoming lunch with Jacqui took center stage in his thoughts. He listened, but he’d heard most of it before in one form or another.
“Hey,” Hauke said when they were finally allowed to head to the locker room. “Where’s your head been this week?”
“Right here.” Henrik pointed to his head, expression flat.
“Ass.” Hauke shoved through the door and stowed his stick on the stick rack.
Henrik followed, doing the same with his stick, and trudged after a silent Hauke to the dressing room. The pungent scent of old sweat greeted him as he entered, the big fans in the middle doing little to air out the space.
Henrik plunked down on the bench and quickly started to undress. He still had forty-five minutes until he had to meet Jacqui and he wanted to get in a cooldown before he showered. He stripped to his compression shorts and a T-shirt, slipped his tennis shoes on and ignored the conversation around him. He made a quick detour to his locker to grab his phone and headphones then headed upstairs to the rows of stationary bikes.
He was the first one there, which gave him the pick of bikes. He was five minutes into his cooldown before other guys started trickling in. Sparks took a bike next to Henrik’s, and he silently groaned. So much for a bit of quiet.
He jerked his headphones off and hung them over the front of the machine. It was only a matter of time before Sparks started talking.
“How’re you feeling?” the man asked about a minute later.
“Good.”
There was a long pause before the next comment came. “You and Rylie are working well together.”
And how did he respond? Anything would be wrong, and there was nothing he could do if Coach decided to shift Rylie to the first pair with him and bump Sparks down to the second.
“I’m just playing my game,” Henrik said.
“I know.” Sparks rubbed his eyes then shook out his arm. “Christ. Sorry.”
Henrik lowered the resistance on his bike and sat up. Was this where he was supposed to comfort the guy? That was the captain’s job, one he’d never wanted. Walters would’ve known exactly what to say in this moment. Only he wasn’t here anymore.
The absence of his friend kicked at Henrik, but he shrugged it off. Guys were shuffled around all the time. Traded, put on waivers, let go—no team remained consistent for long. But Scott had been there since Henrik had joined the Glaciers. Now Henrik was one of the last of the old guard, and he had no idea how to handle that position.
“Just skate your game,” he finally said to Sparks. “It’s all you can do. Stressing about line position won’t help.”
“I know.” Sparks inhaled deep through his nose, lips pressed tight. “It just sucks being on the other side.”
Henrik frowned. “Other side?”
Sparks glanced around. They were in the back row and five other guys were spread out, occupying bikes, all with headphones on. “The side going out instead of coming in,” he explained. “It was a helluva lot more fun when I was the one working my way into the starting pair instead of scrambling to hang on to it.”
That Henrik understood. “It sucks getting old.”
“Fuck. When did twenty-six get old?”
“When you started playing hockey.”
Sparks’s bark of laughter shot out with a bitter edge. “Fucking game.”
Yes. It was. A fucking game. That was it. But it was their life. What they breathed and lived day after day.
He checked the time and slowed his pace. “How’s your fiancée doing?” Changing the topic seemed like a good idea.
“Grumbling because the season’s starting again.”
And maybe not.
“She hates that I’m gone so much,” Sparks went on. “It’s always hard at the start. She gets used to it after a few months.” That was probably another reason why the man hadn’t wanted to go out on Sunday. They’d been on the road Tuesday and Wednesday for games.
Henrik came to a stop and grabbed his stuff. “Play your game,” he told Sparks. “
The rest will sort out. Hell, the season hasn’t even started yet.” And they all knew how quickly things could change once it did.
“I know. Thanks.”
He landed a quick fist-bump before heading back to his locker. Again, he kept to himself as he showered and changed, one eye on the time. He refused to be late.
“Hey,” Hauke called as Henrik strode toward the exit. “Aren’t you grabbing some food?” Hauke motioned toward the lounge where the after-practice meal was laid out. Henrik was usually one of the first guys in there and often the last to leave—if his current girlfriend didn’t have plans for him.
His stomach rumbled at the enticing scents. He hooked his bag over his shoulder and shook his head. “I’ve got a meeting.” He ducked out before Hauke could respond or anyone else could comment on his whipped ass or the short leash his girlfriend had him on.
He might ignore the razzing, but he wasn’t ignorant to what the guys thought of his girlfriends or his behavior around them. Screw them all. They were clueless about a lot of things that weren’t any of their fucking business.
The air was ripe with the scent of dead leaves and pending rain. A glance at the darkened sky showed the threat would probably become real in the near future.
The drive to the café from the Glaciers’ practice facility wasn’t too long and traffic worked in his favor so he arrived five minutes early. It was a seat-yourself place and he found an empty table near the back. He’d forgone the baseball hat and simply hoped that no one recognized him.
He’d already downed one glass of water and was halfway through his second before Jacqui slipped through the door. Barged in, really. The clouds had opened up to release the downpour he’d barely escaped.
She tossed back her hood and shook out her hair as she wiped her feet on the doormat. Damp tendrils curled around her forehead, and her green rain jacket stuck to her form in a layer of wet material. She was still beautiful. The kick to his chest left him winded.
Her smile was open and warm when she spotted him across the room. Damn. He slid out of the booth to wait for her, nerves rushing in to rumble around in his empty stomach.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, still grinning. She slung her backpack into the booth and unzipped her soaked jacket. “I almost beat the rain, but lost the race about two blocks from here.”
His manners kicked in and he helped her out of her jacket. A quick look around showed no hooks, so he laid it on his side of the booth so she wouldn’t get even wetter.
“I can put it over here,” she offered.
“It’s good.” He sat back down after she’d taken a seat.
The vinyl booth squeaked as she slid over then shuffled around until she was comfortable. She picked up the menu, flipping it open. “Have you eaten here before?” She gave a quick glance up. “I’ve seen it, but never stopped. It’s a bit out of my way.”
She fiddled with the edge of the plastic menu, fingers tapping on the back. He studied the movement for a moment, a smile easing out. Nervous energy? Habit? Or completely unconscious?
“Thanks for coming,” he said.
Her head jerked up, menu lowering to the table. She seemed stunned for a second, mouth working before a chuckle came out. “You’re welcome. And back at you.”
“I could’ve picked you up.”
“I’m fine,” she brushed his concern away. “A little water never hurt me.”
The novelty of her response had him shaking his head. No woman he’d ever dated would’ve said that. “I like you.” The words were out before he’d processed how they’d come across.
Her eyes widened. “Well, that’s good to know.”
Damn. “I meant you’re easy,” he tried to recover. “I mean down to earth.” And he was making it worse. Fuck. He clamped his mouth shut, heat flushing over his chest to creep up his neck.
“Ah…thanks again?” The questioning rise at the end solidified his embarrassment.
“That’s a good thing.” He tossed the last out like a white flag of surrender, as futile as it probably was at that point.
She sat back, head tilted in contemplation. Her cheeks were pink from exertion or warmth. Or maybe that was her natural complexion. He had past girlfriends who would’ve killed for that rosy look. Her hair draped down her back, slightly damp and frizzing a little from the moisture. Her gray hoodie bore the college insignia and looked comfortable on her.
Again, nothing flashy. No dressing to impress him, or anyone for that matter.
“You’re an interesting man, Henrik Grenick.”
He resisted the urge to fidget and let her finish her silent assessment. He’d been called a lot worse than interesting, so he put that comment in the plus column.
“So—” she picked her menu back up, “—do you recommend anything?”
That was it? “Uh…what do you feel like eating?” He’d eaten there a few times, but his tastes usually differed from his dates’.
“How are the burgers?”
“Excellent.”
She closed her menu and set it aside. “Well, that was easy.”
Yeah. That was. A bit of the tension slipped from his shoulders as he sat back. Maybe he hadn’t ruined his chances with her. “How was your week?” he asked, actually interested.
She shrugged. “The usual. Yours?”
His chuckle was real and refreshing. Like her. “The usual.” He met her smile, amusement dancing between them. The absence of a long diatribe of wrongs and issues left him at a loss. A good one though.
They placed their orders when the waitress stopped by. Jacqui didn’t even comment on the size of his order—another nice surprise. In season, the nutritionist had him consuming close to 6000 calories a day to maintain his ideal playing weight. Most of his girlfriends couldn’t comprehend that. But Jacqui had grown up with four brothers who played hockey. Maybe she understood.
“So, Henrik,” Jacqui said, eyeing him again. “What got you interested in music?”
It’d been so long since anyone had asked him that question, he stumbled for an answer. He could whip out a canned reply if she’d asked about hockey instead of music, but she hadn’t.
“It was more of a who.” His heart expanded and ached. Remembering his grandmother always led to thoughts of his sister. “My grandmother was a lover of the arts. She started all of us on the piano when we were little.”
“I thought you said you didn’t play the piano.”
Of course she’d remember that. “I don’t. Not anymore.”
“That’s a shame.” The softness of honest loss whispered through her words. “Why not?”
He shook the question off, the answer too personal for a first date. This was a date, right? “Time. Interest.” He shrugged. The bluff was old, one he’d successfully given his family—and himself—many times. His leg bounced with the nerves that wove through him the longer she remained silent, her assessing gaze too knowing.
“But you do still play the guitar. Right?”
“A bit.” He straightened the silverware then unfolded the napkin and set it over his lap. “When there’s time. Nothing very good though.” He’d never mastered the guitar like he had the piano.
“Huh.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ability has nothing to do with enjoyment.”
“Too true. But that applies to just about everything, doesn’t it?” Hockey being one of those things. And why in the hell would he open a door that had to remain firmly closed?
Her head bobbed in agreement. “That it does. So.” She leaned in. “Do you enjoy playing?” He panicked for a second before she added, “The guitar.”
His breath escaped in a slow release that settled his heart back down. The guitar. Not hockey. “I do.”
“But not the piano? Not anymore at least?”
He grunted, arms crossing over his chest. “Persistent, aren’t you?”
“Crap.” She sat back, wincing. “Sorry. It’s none of my business, is it?” She blew out a breath. “I can be a bit intense about mus
ic. I imagine you’re the same about hockey.”
And she would be wrong about that. He shrugged it off and deftly deflected the assumption. “So how did you get into music?”
Her face lit up, pure joy emanating from her. “We had an old upright piano in our basement. Badly out of tune, but I didn’t care. I played it anyway. I pestered my parents for a year for lessons, but we never had the money. Then…” Her gaze drifted away, glow fading as she got lost in the past. She cleared her throat. “Then things changed, and music became my escape.” The lame finish said there was a lot more she wasn’t saying.
So they both had past secrets that first dates didn’t get to know about. That was standard, but he actually wanted to know about hers. Yet another difference from his other dates.
Their food arrived, and they both dug into their meal. He’d moved past hungry to the close-to-starving stage about thirty minutes ago, so he focused on rectifying that problem until the hunger pains eased. A chicken breast and a side of olive-oil-tossed pasta with vegetables later, he glanced up to see her nibbling on her fries, burger half gone.
“Good?” She motioned to his meal.
“Ahh.” He sat back, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “The food? Yeah.”
“My brothers inhale food like that all the time. Especially after a hockey game.”
He looked at his plate. He still had another chicken breast and a side of steamed vegetables to eat. “I just got out of hockey practice.”
“Cool.” She waved at his plate again. “Don’t stop because I said something.”
He gripped his fork, hesitating. “How’s your burger?”
“Excellent.” Her grin was wide. “Just like you said.” She scooped up a glob of mayo then ketchup and plopped another fry into her mouth.
Easy. She was just so easy to be with. No drama. No show.
He had no clue how to handle it.
“Do you know who I am?” he finally blurted out. Would she change once she fully understood? “I play for the Minnesota Glaciers.”
Jacqui frowned, slowly straightening. Confusion wrinkled over her brow and the awkwardness grew the longer she didn’t respond.
