Always Only You (Bergman Brothers Book 2)

by Chloe Liese

  Always Only You

  Bergman Brothers (#2)

  Chloe Liese

  Cover Art by

  Jennie Rose Denton of Lamplight Creative

  Always Only You

  A Bergman Brothers Novel (#2)

  Chloe Liese

  Copyright © 2020 Chloe Liese

  Published by Chloe Liese

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Playlist Note

  At the beginning of each chapter is a song and artist that provides another means of emotional connection. It isn’t a necessity—for some it may well be a distraction or for others, inaccessible, and thus should be ignored entirely!—nor are the lyrics literally “about” the chapter. Listen while or before you read for a soundtrack experience. If you enjoy playlists, rather than individually searching each song as you read, you can directly access these songs on a Spotify Playlist by logging onto your Spotify account and entering “Always Only You (BB #2)” into the search browser.

  For the misfits.

  You are wonderfully made. You belong.

  Always.

  “You want nothing but patience; or give it a more fascinating name: call it hope.”

  — Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

  Contents

  1. Frankie

  2. Frankie

  3. Ren

  4. Frankie

  5. Frankie

  6. Ren

  7. Frankie

  8. Frankie

  9. Ren

  10. Frankie

  11. Ren

  12. Ren

  13. Frankie

  14. Ren

  15. Ren

  16. Frankie

  17. Frankie

  18. Ren

  19. Frankie

  20. Frankie

  21. Ren

  22. Frankie

  23. Frankie

  24. Frankie

  25. Frankie

  26. Ren

  27. Frankie

  28. Ren

  29. Frankie

  30. Ren

  31. Ren

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Chloe Liese

  Frankie

  Playlist: “Better By Myself,” Hey Violet

  Ren Bergman is too damn happy.

  In the three years I’ve known him, I’ve seen him not smiling twice. Once, when he was unconscious on the ice, so I hardly think that counts, and the other time, when an extreme fan shoved her way through a crowd, yelling that she’d had his face tattooed on her lady bits because, and I quote: “A girl can dream.”

  But for those two uncharacteristically grim moments, Ren has been nothing but a ray of sunshine since the moment I met him. And whereas I myself am a little storm cloud, I recognize that Ren’s Santa-on-uppers capacity for kindness makes my job easy.

  As In-Game Social Media Coordinator for the Los Angeles Kings, I have my work cut out for me. Hockey players, you may have heard, are not always the most well-behaved humans. It inflates the ego, getting paid millions of dollars to play a game they love while tapping into their inner toddler. Hit. Smash. Shove.

  With fortune comes fame and fawning females at their fingertips—those don’t help matters, either. Yes, I’m aware that’s a lot of “f” words. So, sue me, I like alliteration.

  While the PR department has the delightful privilege of putting out public-image fires, I do the day-to-day groundwork of cultivating our team’s social media presence. Glued to the team, iPhone in hand, I make the guys accessible to fans by implementing PR-sanctioned hype—informal interviews, jokes, tame pranks, photo ops, gifs, even the occasional viral meme.

  I also document informal charitable outings geared toward our most underrepresented fans. It’s not in my exact job description, but I’m a big believer in breaking down stigma around differences we tend to ostracize, so I wormed my way into the process. I don’t just want to make our hockey team more accessible to its fans, I want us to be a team that leads its fans in advancing accessibility itself.

  That makes me sound sweet, doesn’t it? But the truth is nobody on the team would call me that. In fact, my reputation is quite the opposite: Frank the Crank. And while this bad rap is formed on partial truths and ample misunderstandings, I’ve taken the moniker and run with it. In the end, it makes everyone’s lives easier.

  I do my job with resting bitch face. I’m blunt, all business. I like my routines, I focus on my work, and I sure as shit don’t get close with the players. Yes, we get along for the most part. But you have to have boundaries when you’re a woman in the near-constant company of two-dozen testosterone-soaked male athletes—athletes who know I’m in their corner, but who also know Frankie is a thundercloud you don’t get too close to, unless you want to get zapped.

  Just like rainclouds and sunshine share the sky, Ren and I work well together. Whenever PR has a killer concept and I come up with a social media home run—pardon my mixing sports metaphors—Ren is my man.

  Campy skit in the locker room to raise money for the inner-city sports programs? There’s Ren and his megawatt smile, delivering lines with effortless charm. Photoshoot for the local animal shelter’s fundraiser? Ren’s laughing as kitties claw up his massive shoulders and puppies whine for his attention, lapping his chin while he lavishes them with that wide, sunny grin.

  Sometimes, it’s practically stomach-turning. I still get queasy when I remember the time Ren sat with a young cancer patient. Turning white as a sheet, given his fear of needles, he told her the world’s lamest knock-knock jokes while he donated blood and she had her bloodwork done. So they could be brave together.

  Cue the collective female swoon.

  I shouldn’t complain. I shouldn’t. Because, truly, the guy’s a nonstop-scoring, smiling, six-foot-three hunk of happy, who makes my job much easier than it otherwise would be. But there’s only so much sunshine that a grump like me can take. And for three years, Ren has been pushing my limit.

  In the locker room, I scowl down at my phone, handling an asshole troll on the team’s Twitter page, while I weave through the maze of half-naked men. I’ve seen it all a thousand times, and I could care less—

  “Oof,” I grunt as my face connects with a bare, solid chest.

  “Sorry, Frankie.” Strong hands steady me by my shoulders. It’s the happy man himself, Ren Bergman. But this time, he’s shirtless, which Ren never is. He’s the most modest of the bunch.

  I’m tallish, which places my gaze squarely in line with Ren’s chiseled-from-stone pectoral muscles. And flat, dusky nipples, which tighten as the air chills his damp skin. I try to avert my eyes, but they have a mind of their own, drifting lower and lower to his six-, no eight-, no—dammit, his a-lot-of—pack.

  My swallow is so loud it practically echoes in the room. “I-it’s okay.”

  Well, hello there, husky, sexed-up escort voice.

  I clear my throat and tear my eyes away from his body. “No worries,” I tell him. “My fault.” Lifting my phone, I wiggle it side to side. “Serves me right for traipsing around, nose-deep in Twitter.”

  Ren smiles which just spirals my mood even further south. The amount of dopamine that this guy’s brain makes daily is probably my annual sum total.


  Smoothing a hand over his playoff beard, he then brings it to the back of his neck and scratches, which I’ve learned over the past few years is his nervous tic. His bicep bunches, one rounded shoulder flexes, and I try not to stare at his massive lats, which give his upper body a powerful “V” shape, knitting themselves to his ribs, and a long, trim waist.

  The visual feast results in a temporary short circuit, wiping my thoughts clean but for a two-word refrain.

  Wowy. Muscles.

  It must be because whereas the rest of the team are practically nudists, Ren always disappears for a shower and comes back rocking a fresh suit, crisp shirt, and tie. I’ve never seen this much Ren Bergman nakedness. Ever.

  And I’m riveted.

  “You’re rather unclothed,” I blurt.

  He blushes and drops his hand to his side. “True.” Leaning in, he lifts one eyebrow and says conspiratorially, “This is the locker room, you know.”

  I resist the fierce urge to tweak his nipple. “Don’t sass me, Bergman. I wasn’t finished.” I take a step back because, holy hell, does that man smell good. Fresh soap and a warm spiciness chasing it. Something enticingly male. “You don’t normally waltz around naked like—”

  Kris streaks by bare-assed on a high-pitched shriek, whipping his towel playfully at Ren as he passes. I lift a hand in the doofus’s direction. “Schar makes my point for me.”

  Ren’s blush deepens as he glances away. “You’re right. I don’t normally traipse around like this. I just forgot something I needed.”

  “What did you forget? Your suit’s right back there.” I can see it from here, hanging near the showers. Smart man. Steamy air takes out the wrinkles.

  Dammit, now I’m thinking about Ren taking steamy showers.

  “Well, uh…” he says. “I forgot what goes underneath the suit.”

  “Oh.”

  My cheeks heat. Good grief. Of course. The guy forgot his boxers—Ooh, or maybe briefs? I need to stop thinking about this—and here I am holding him up like it’s the Spanish Inquisition.

  As if he can read my dirty thoughts, Ren pins me with those unnaturally intense eyes—catlike and pale as the ice he skates on. “I’ll just go get them, then…”

  “Great idea.” I step to one side, as Ren goes the same way. We both laugh awkwardly. Then Ren tries for the other side, just as I do, too. “Jesus,” I mumble. So mortifying. Were the earth to open up and swallow me whole, this moment would be significantly improved.

  “Here.” Ren’s hands land warm on my shoulders again, his touch gentle, unlike most of the guys on the team, who seem incapable of not knocking into me like they’re the Hulk. While I flinch before incoming contact with them, there’s something graceful and controlled about Ren.

  “I’ll go this way,” he says. “You go that way.”

  Like a revolving door, we finally manage to move past each other. Once Ren’s strolling away, I’d like to say I don’t glance over my shoulder to ogle the guy’s backside from the revealing contours of a locker room towel, but I’m not in the habit of lying.

  “Fraaaaankie,” an obnoxious voice yells.

  That’s Matt Maddox. Evil yin to Ren’s pure-goodness yang.

  “Jesus, keep me strong,” I mutter.

  In our little nature metaphor, in which I’m the thundercloud and Ren’s the sun, Matt’s the reeking sulfurous geyser that everyone runs away from. While Ren is warm and always gentlemanly, Matt is, in short, a natural disaster of grade-A douchery.

  Matt crosses the locker room and closes in on me, not for the first time. Not by a long stretch.

  Bracing myself for impact, I pocket my phone and prepare to mouth-breathe. I’m used to the stank of our locker room, but post-game, the guys smell extra ripe, and I have a sensitive sniffer. I gag in here regularly.

  Slinging a stinky arm around me, Matt jars my whole body. I clench my jaw and try not to wince. “Where’s your phone?” he says. “I think we need a selfie, Frank.”

  I duck and shuffle backward, out of his reach. “And I think you need a shower. You do your job, Maddox. I’ll do mine.”

  He rakes his sweat-soaked dark hair back from his face and sighs. “One of these days, I’m gonna crack you.”

  “I’m a tough nut, champ.” Turning, I unearth my phone, swipe open to the camera and angle it over my head so it cuts out Matt and catches the guys behind me. Nobody’s in a state of extensive undress anymore—a few bare chests, most everyone almost done putting on their suits. Fans eat that shit for breakfast. “Smile, boys!”

  They all whip their heads my way, plastering on dutiful grins as they say, “Cheese!”

  I have them so well trained.

  “Thank you.” Pocketing my phone, I head toward the exit. “Don’t forget, drinks—not in excess—and burgers at Louie’s. Uber if you plan on getting shitfaced anyway.”

  On a chorus of “Yes, Frankie” echoing behind me, I shove open the door, buoyed by the satisfied purpose of a woman whose life is ordered and predictable. Just how I like it.

  At Louie’s, I throw off my blazer and push up my sleeves in preparation for the meal I ordered. Suits and greasy bar food aren’t the best combination, but there’s never time to change after my post-game duties before we head out, so I’m stuck sporting my usual work outfit.

  Like the rest of the staff and players, on game day, I wear a suit. The same one, every game. Black peplum blazer, matching ankle-cut dress slacks, and a white dress shirt with black buttons. My cropped slacks show off my Nike Cortez sneakers in our signature black and silver, and my nails are of course painted their usual glossy black with silver shimmer on the middle finger, because it makes flipping people off extra festive. The whole look is very Wednesday Adams, with a similar and intended repelling effect. People leave me alone. Which is how I like it.

  “Double cheeseburger,” Joe, our bartender, says.

  “Thanks.” I nod and pull the plate my way.

  Nice thing about Louie’s is they give our orders first preference—bunch of hungry jocks need food stat after a game—so not ten minutes after arriving, sleeves rolled up, grease drips down my wrists as I bite into my burger. I hold it over my plate and lean to trap my drink’s straw with my mouth, taking a long pull of root beer.

  Louie’s is one of those hole-in-the-wall gems of an LA burger joint that feels fewer and further between with each passing, granola-crunching year. I swear, even just four years ago when I moved here, LA was still the land of the greasy burger and the world’s best street food. Now it’s all juice bars and whatever shit GOOP says will flatten your stomach.

  As root beer fizzes happily in my belly, I extract a pickle from my sandwich and crunch on it. “Life’s too short to give up burgers.”

  Willa grunts in agreement from her seat next to me. She’s dating Ren’s brother Ryder and they try to come down for a handful of games each season, so this isn’t the first time Willa and I have talked, but it is the first time we’ve bonded over the sad turn for the healthier that Southern-Californian food has taken. Or more accurately, I’ve been monologuing about it for five minutes straight while she grunts and eats and seems to agree with me. I tend to fixate on something, then talk longer than most people about it, which I’ve learned annoys people sometimes, bores them others, and every once in a while, manages to interest them similarly.

  Unfortunately, I usually only recognize in retrospect when I’ve monologued. I swear, I’m not making that up. I cannot tell when it’s happening. Everyone knows the saying “time flies when you’re having fun,” and that’s the only way I can explain how my awareness works when I’m in a groove, talking about something that I like—I have no sense of how long it’s been.

  Because this isn’t my first time around Willa, though, I know she and I are comfortable enough around each other that she’d shut me up or change the subject if she wanted to. We’ve only hung out a few times since, as a professional soccer player, she’s pretty busy, but we’ve clicked at the handful of games s
he and Ryder have attended.

  “Glorious burgers,” she says thickly around a bite. “I could never let them go. I mean Coach would kill me for eating this, but goddamn, there is nothing better than a double cheeseburger after a long day. I don’t care what my carbon footprint is. Kill that cow and get it in my belly.”

  Ryder leans away from his conversation adjacent to us and says to her, “I’ll overlook that environmentally insensitive comment because you’re a good kisser, Sunshine, and I cook plant-based for us eighty percent of the time.”

  Sheepishly, Willa smiles up at him. “Sometimes I wish those doodads around your ears didn’t work quite so well, Ry.”

  Ryder uses cochlear implants, which I can barely see amid his thick blond hair. Like Ren, Ryder is a handsome guy. Short beard, bright green eyes, and Ren’s cheekbones.

  Willa and Ryder live up in Washington State, where Willa plays for Reign FC, and their place is nestled in the middle of the woods. To look at them, you can totally picture it. Ryder gives off an outdoorsy vibe with his plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and boots. Willa fits with him in her warm, practical clothes—a UCLA hoodie and ripped-up jeans, no makeup in sight to accentuate her big amber eyes and pouty lips. She has an incredible head of hair that’s untamed waves and curls, no product, no styling. Just wilderness beauty.