by Elise Faber
Brit had completely forgotten they were supposed to talk after her session with Mandy. “Good—”
Her eyes flicked to the corner again when the shadow rotated.
Frankie’s gaze followed hers. “Eunice, could you come here?”
A woman in her mid-forties rose out of the darkness, walked toward them, and all the fear that had stiffened Brit’s spine dissipated. She realized that the older woman must have been cleaning something, given the towel and spray bottle in her hands.
“Brit, meet Eunice,” Frankie said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Plantain.” Eunice extended her hand as though to shake before biting her lip and drawing it back.
Brit didn’t know if it was because the other woman wore gloves or just didn’t make a regular habit of shaking players’ hands.
She didn’t care about either.
Reaching across the space between them, she smiled and grasped Eunice’s palm.
“Nice to meet you too,” she said. “And Brit, please.”
The other woman’s smile lit up her face, settled the last of Brit’s nerves.
“Eunice helps with cleaning on practice days. She never misses a shift.” Frankie cocked his head, winked. “Unless her son is playing.”
God, Brit loved this sport. Loved the way it put a look of pride on parents’ faces, loved the way it lit up kids’ lives.
Of course, there were assholes, and people who got hurt or had negative experiences.
But all in all, she’d never been part of anything better.
The three of them chatted for a few minutes more, Brit learning that Eunice’s son was getting a shot at Junior As—a decent prospect for a California kid—and that he played center.
“She works in exchange for equipment,” Frankie said quietly once Eunice had gone back to her cleaning. “Couldn’t afford it otherwise. Bernard brought her on with the stipulation that she never work on a day her son plays.”
“You’re trying to soften me up to him.”
“No need,” Frankie said. “He’s a good man. You’ll see that soon enough. He’s hard as hell but . . .”
Brit sighed, even though in her heart she already knew the truth—having seen him interact with the team at practice.
She’d had bad coaches. Bernard wasn’t one of them.
“He’s good,” she said in agreement. Which really shouldn’t be annoying, but somehow still was.
Frankie grinned. “Now, you’re getting it.” He nodded toward Eunice. “And her son is the best-outfitted kid on his team with his NHL rejects.”
“Well, damn,” she mock-griped, thoroughly charmed despite herself. “Why’d you have to go and tell me that?”
“Can’t have you laboring under a misapprehension.”
She blew out a breath and slung her backpack over her good shoulder. “I could have labored for a few more days.”
“Better that you don’t. Come on.” Frankie gestured toward the hall. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
Brit felt relief at his words, which tempered some of her amusement. “I’m fine.”
Frankie didn’t reply, just started walking, and she had the feeling that even if she refused his offer, Frankie would still walk her to her car.
As Mandy had demonstrated, some battles weren’t worth fighting.
Especially when the outcome was what she needed deep down anyway.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stefan
Stefan pulled up to his house, a decent-size older bungalow in a small suburb just south of the city. The lights were on, and he knew his mom was still awake.
She always waited up for him.
He pulled into the drive and got out, wondering how, at thirty years of age, he’d come full circle and was back living with his mother.
The move to San Francisco had been for her, to make her dream of living in the famous city come true. After she’d battled and beat cancer, Stefan had wanted to make that happen for her.
And somehow living with his mom had become okay.
She wasn’t obtrusive. They got along. It had been just the two of them when he was growing up, and it hadn’t taken much for them to get back in the groove.
Still, his intention had been to buy her a condo or house—whatever she’d wanted.
Then she’d gotten sick again, and everything had shifted.
Stefan hadn’t been around for her first battle with cancer—no amount of begging would move his mom to Canada—and though he’d flown to Minnesota as often as possible, he’d still been in the middle of the season. His visits had been limited, and her care had been mostly regulated to health care professionals and the few friends she’d let help.
But things were different now. Even though the season was gearing up, she was close, and he would damn well be by her side.
Where she’d been for him countless times.
His road to playing professional hockey meant that he’d had to move a fair amount growing up. Some players stayed with host families, others boarding schools. His mom had always managed to find a new job in the new city and had moved with him, so they’d lived together. More than that, she’d always had an uncanny ability to make every place they’d ever lived feel like home.
Which was something his sixteen-year-old self had resented. His adult-self? Well, he understood how much of a sacrifice it must have been for her.
The garage door rumbled open, and he walked in, right past his mom’s battered 1999 Honda Civic.
He shook his head as he walked past the old rust bucket, its license plate askew and the headlights stained yellow from age.
How many times had he offered to get her a new car?
With a sigh, he pushed into the kitchen. It was quiet, which was unusual, and there were no cooking smells, which was even stranger.
He frowned, glanced around, almost feeling like this was some sort of joke, like a cameraman would pop out and yell, “Gotcha!”
But of course, nobody did.
“Mom! I’m home.”
There was no response. No hurried footsteps down the hall, no hum of the TV.
Stefan’s heart stuttered. He slung his bag and keys onto the counter and took off running.
If something had happened to her while he was at work . . .
He didn’t take note of the small framed photos she’d filled every corner of his house with or the bright purple throw pillows he’d given her such a hard time about buying.
No, he just sprinted down the hall toward her bedroom, his feet pounding against the hardwood floor.
Her bedroom door was ajar, and he pushed in without hesitation—
She was asleep.
Soft breaths punctuated the silence, soothed the frantic beating of his heart.
Carefully, he backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him. But he’d barely made it two steps before he had to sit down, his spine right there against the pale green wall his mom had repainted just after her diagnosis.
Stefan could do three-hundred-pound squats until his trainers were blue in the face. But the thought of something happening to his mom made his knees buckle.
Cancer.
Recurrent Stage 2 breast cancer.
When he’d heard the news six weeks before, Stefan had immediately flown back to Minnesota and packed his mom’s belongings. She’d refused to come the previous year, not wanting to “cramp his style” in a new city, but he’d finally worn her down and she’d been planning on coming later in the season, after she’d found and trained her replacement at her job.
He hadn’t cared about any of that.
No way could she manage her appointments through a Minnesotan winter—not to mention clearing the driveway of snow, brushing off her car, and the million other things that crept up when someone lived in a place with a shit-ton of the white fluffy stuff.
Stefan could have hired someone to take care of those things for her, like he’d done before, bu
t that wasn’t what the Baries did. That wasn’t what was right.
His mother had taken care of him. So he would take care of her.
Even if he had to personally pound every cancer cell into submission.
After a few minutes, the adrenaline let down, leaving him shakier than a playoff game. He pushed to his feet and walked to the kitchen.
It only took a minute to throw together a turkey sandwich for himself then set out crackers and dish up some chicken noodle soup. He’d heat it for his mom when she woke.
Stefan wished she would eat more, gain back some of the weight she’d lost. But his mom had just finished her second round of chemo on Friday. And though she had this week off, residual nausea still made it tough for her to keep anything heavy down.
He ate his sandwich in a few bites, made another, and grabbed a beer and bottle of water—no one could say he didn’t take hydration seriously—before sitting down in front of the TV and trying to push all of his fear for his mom to the side.
For once, it worked.
He watched random stories on ESPN, reveling in the way his mind went numb, not absorbing anything. For the first time in weeks, he actually relaxed.
Gradually, the sunlight coming in through the windows dwindled as day turned to night. His mom still slept, but that wasn’t a bad thing. She needed her rest.
It was almost dark when he heard something that snapped his mind to razor-sharp focus.
“ . . .trouble with the Gold already?” the female announcer said. “Notorious womanizer Barie is seen flirting with the first female slated to play for an NHL team, Brit Plantain.”
A picture of him talking to Brit in the parking lot flashed on the TV. They were both leaning over the trunk of her car. It was a cozy shot. He and Brit close enough to touch and him smiling down at her.
If Stefan didn’t know better—if he hadn’t actually lived the scene—he might have believed the story the announcer was spinning.
But he did know better, and despite the rumors, he didn’t actually sleep with every member of the opposite sex.
Not any longer anyway.
Hitting the bar, staying out too late, and screwing everything in sight had lost its appeal after just a few seasons.
Unfortunately for him and Brit, his reputation hadn’t gone away quite as easily, and the press loved to regurgitate his so-called conquests.
One—one!—fucking date with a very popular celebrity had ensured that. They’d decided they weren’t right for each other, and Stefan had been photographed out with someone else the next night. There was no bad blood between him and Kelsey, but that picture had cemented his place as a playboy.
Ah. The stupidity of youth. Especially since the second date hadn’t been any better than the first.
The camera cut back to the anchor, who gave a coy smirk. “Is Brit going to fall just like every other female in Barie’s path? Or will she be able to hold her own against those baby blues, and be the one to knock Stefan to his knees?”
“Christ,” he muttered and switched off the TV, blinking against the sudden lack of light. “This is why I watch SportsFocus and not Entertainment This Evening.”
Knock him to his knees? Hell no. But Stefan couldn’t deny his surprise at how sweet Brit seemed. He’d expected there to be nothing feminine about her, and though she was fierce as a wildcat—as she’d demonstrated so clearly on the ice—she was also eager, a little anxious, and almost . . . soft.
Like there was a vulnerable core under that tough exterior.
Not to mention gorgeous—
“Brit, huh?” his mother asked. “Is she pretty?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stefan narrowed his eyes. “You promised not to pull out those ninja skills, Mom.”
His mom’s lips twitched as she sat onto the couch next to him. “I wasn’t quiet. You were engrossed.”
In Brit. In memories of her smile, her cute but awkward social skills, and . . . an ass he wanted to grab with both hands.
“Stevie?” she asked, making him jump like a guilty toddler.
“I’m not engrossed. Just have a lot on my mind.” Yeah, like Brit. When he should really be worried about his mom. Plus, if he was thinking about the team at all, he should be coming up with ways to corral Mike Stewart before his presence did any more damage.
The man was a black hole. Stewart sucked a team down, and they were never seen or heard from again.
“I didn’t know you’d gotten up.” Stefan pushed to his feet, trying to not notice how fragile his mom looked. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
He bit back a groan. It was always fine with his mom, even when she was puking from the chemo or being jabbed with ten different needles. But instead of arguing with her, which would get him absolutely nowhere, he turned for the kitchen.
“Good. I’ll heat you up some food. You’ve missed dinner.”
“I’m not hungry,” she said, even as she stood and followed him into the kitchen.
His eyes flicked to hers, and he glared. “You need to eat. And it’s just soup and crackers.”
“But—”
“Please, Mom.” Realistically, he knew he couldn’t fight the fucking cancer for her, but at the very least, he could make sure she ate and was well-rested.
She sighed, sinking into the kitchen chair like it was a torture rack.
“Want to cross your arms too?”
That earned him a smile. “I can’t believe I raised such a stubborn son.”
“Where do you think I got it?”
Her snort was familiar . . . and welcome. Any sign of his BS-spotting, tough-as-hell mother eased the vice around his heart.
The microwave dinged, and he put the bowl, a spoon, and crackers in front of her, not breathing until she actually began to eat.
Relief spread through him, loosened the muscles of his neck and shoulders. She would be okay.
She had to be.
“You going to tell me about Brit?” she asked between bites. “Or am I going to have to pull it out of you?”
Here we go. “Mom.”
She tilted her head to the side, studied him intently. “Do you want to date her? I know inter-office relationships are frowned upon, but I think this situation could work with a little creativity . . .”
“Diane,” he warned and shot her a look that would have made a rookie piss himself.
Did his mom have a similar reaction? No, of course not. She smiled beatifically and kept on talking. “ . . .and you know you’re getting older. Now’s the time to start a family, when you’re young. And virile.”
He gagged. “Seriously. That word is never allowed to come out of your mouth again.”
“What? Family? Or virile?” Her eyes glittered with amusement, and even though it was at his expense, Stefan laughed along with her.
Then he lied.
“I’m not interested in her, Mom,” he said. “She’s a teammate. That’s all.”
His mother glanced up at him, lips twitching. “That’s not what SportsFocus said.”
He sighed. “When have you begun believing anything the media says?”
“Since you haven’t given me anything else.”
“Today was her first day, and you were sleeping when I got home.”
His mother took another bite, her appetite apparently restored by the fervor of her curiosity.
“So is she pretty?”
He groaned.
This was absolute agony, being questioned by his mother about Brit—who he absolutely couldn’t be interested in, no matter how good she looked naked.
Stefan had more than appreciated the view, even if it had been in the middle of the locker room.
Grudging respect had joined with the attraction at that point. But then add in her attitude on the ice?
Well, that had cemented it for him.
In his book, tough as hell also happened to be sexy as hell.
/> But it didn’t matter that his body had reacted to Brit’s strip-down like a Mack truck hitting a brick wall, that it had been a fucking exercise in control just attempting to tamp those feelings down.
What was important was that he view Brit solely as a teammate, both for himself, as captain of the team, and for her.
This was her shot at the show, and she needed to grasp it with both hands.
Still he couldn’t help but think his mom would like Brit’s balls-out attitude.
“Yup, she’s pretty,” his mom said and took another bite.
For the first time, Stefan considered that this line of questioning might be worth it if his mother continued to eat.
“Pretty has nothing to do with it.”
“It does where the media is concerned.” She set her spoon down. “Pretty gets more ratings. So what were you doing talking to her in the parking lot?”
Son of a bitch. Just how much of that story had his mom seen?
“I got in at the same time as Brit, wanted to show her the locker room.”
“She’s changing with you boys?” she asked, wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t it stinky?”
His mom still remembered the days when his gear would smell up whatever one-bedroom apartment they’d been staying in.
Not that his shit hadn’t stunk something fierce, but these days the equipment staff for the Gold kept the team’s gear smelling fresher than his laundry.
“Yes,” Stefan said. “Brit was quite adamant about it.” He shrugged when his mom’s mouth dropped open. “Makes sense to me. She needs to bond with the team, not miss any system or lineup changes.”
“But the showers? And changing? Doesn’t she want privacy?”
He smiled. “I’m guessing she’s used to changing with a bunch of dudes. Plus, the nudity thing is pretty much ignored. She’s not going to be looking at anyone, and no one will look at her.”
“Really?”
Maybe. “Really.”
“Hmm. I wonder if she’s gay.”
Irritation filled him, and he had to work to keep his tone light. He’d already caught this question being posed about Brit more than was comfortable . . . which meant he’d heard it exactly more than zero times. What did it matter who she was attracted to, anyway? Plus, that wasn’t the vibe he got from her. “She’s not gay.”
