by Kate Meader
“Oui.”
Mia chimed in. “I was coming over for lunch and ran into Kennedy and Bucky …”
No one heard the rest because the entire locker room went gaga about Bucky’s name and how cute was that, etcetera. The little huckster loved the attention.
“Bucky …” Kershaw said in a musing tone that Reid knew he was going to hate, “Which makes you Captain … Canada?”
“Captain Canuck,” Cade Burnett said. “That might work.”
“Rebels. Assemble!” Kershaw called out, which jumpstarted a spirited conversation about which Avengers hero might work for each team member.
As he pulled his shirt on, Erik Jorgenson was refusing the Thor label on the grounds he was Swedish not fucking Norwegian—and now Reid realized that most of the guys were shirtless, and at least one of them was still in his towel from the shower.
Jorgenson crept closer to Reid’s roommate. “So, Kennedy, you work at the coffee shop, right?”
Kennedy pointed at their tender. “Chocolate mint frappe!”
“That’s me.” Jorgenson winked, a total hambone. “Haven’t seen you there lately.”
“I’m full-time with this little guy.” Reid could tell she was doing her best not to look at him and oddly, he was trying to do the same.
Because if he did, he might not be able to stop.
Damn this woman and her skimpy white panties.
Petrov latched that aristocratic Russian gaze onto Reid. “You have a full-time nanny for your dog, Durand?”
“Live-in, too,” Foreman said, and that was all it took. Every single player gawped like goldfish learning that water was wet.
Kennedy was watching him, not jumping in to explain, recognizing that this was his territory. He shouldn’t have to explain a thing to these fuckers but for some reason known only to the hockey gods, he found himself justifying why he had moved a strange (to him) and gorgeous (to everyone) woman into his apartment. Put like that, maybe it needed no explanation.
“The dog needs a lot of care.” As do I.
Where had that come from? That wasn’t Kennedy’s job, yet this morning when she touched his arm and gave him a peck on the cheek, he had felt … appreciated.
Perhaps he was a touch sensitive because of his conversation with Coach. Coach, who had said Reid had skills the team needed right now. Reid, who had never felt needed for anything.
Cade was staring at him, the gears of that sharp brain turning, rubbing the rough bristle on his chin. “But you got someone to move in. For the dog.”
“I like my dog.” Bucky needed him. Of that Reid was 100% certain.
“He’s doing me a huge favor, too,” Kennedy said. “I needed a place to stay so it all worked out.”
“Sounds like it did,” Kaminski muttered.
“Oh, not so sure about that,” Foreman said so low only Reid could hear. He turned, ready to be annoyed as always with this guy.
The smart mouth Bostonian was considering him with something like pity. Shoe’s on the other foot, that look said. Kaminski and the rest of them might think he’d lucked out having a hot, free-spirited roommate like Kennedy under his feet—and maybe under him—but Foreman knew better.
Reid was in trouble, and Foreman was enjoying the hell out it.
15
It usually started this way. A slight ache at the back of his skull. If he left it any longer and it moved to the front, he knew.
He was getting a migraine.
Since he was fifteen, he had suffered them, usually triggered by stress, sometimes by alcohol. It was another reason to be careful about his diet and his preparation. Anything out of the ordinary might set him on a road to debilitation. Only once had he felt so sick that he couldn’t play: during the semis of the Frozen Four in college. His parents had come down from Canada, and Bastian had been there, ready to cheer him on.
That night the migraine had barreled in swiftly, too fast for him to try to head it off with medication. All he’d wanted to do was lie in a darkened room, put a blanket over his head, and pretend the world didn’t exist. He had tried to push through it, getting dressed for the game, taping his stick, running through his mantras.
You are better than anyone here.
You can overcome anything they throw at you.
You deserve this.
Only when he vomited in the locker room did he realize that no amount of positivity-boosting self-talk could get him into that game.
Henri hadn’t spoken to him for a month. The team made the final and two nights later, Reid was back in action and even scored a goal, though they lost in the end. His stepfather wouldn’t come down for that game, too disappointed at Reid’s failure the game before. Too disgusted that the boy he had trained to be champion would let “a girl’s problem” fell him.
Reid would never give Henri an excuse to doubt him again. He watched his diet, was a slave to his exercise regimen, kept his entire life on an even keel so there would be no interruptions. He hadn’t told the Rebels team doc or Coach Calhoun. Better to play that by ear. No one should perceive weakness in him.
But today he could feel it on the edges of his brain. He stood too quickly from the sofa, and a stab of pain slammed through his skull. He needed quiet and dark and … his dog.
“Come on, boy,” he whispered. “Time for a nap.”
Bucky trotted after him and Reid dithered over leaving the door ajar in case the dog needed to get in or out. He couldn’t be expected to sleep on Reid’s schedule, after all.
At times like this, he wished he didn’t have a roommate. Would she make noise? Would she close the door if she saw it open?
Best to give her a heads up. He walked to her room and raised a fist, his ears alert to Dolly Parton being far too nice to that Jolene chick. Bust her up, Dolly.
The door was yanked open abruptly.
“Hi!” As if she was surprised to see him. “Listen, about yesterday at the practice, I’m sorry if I made things awkward for you. I wasn’t sure how much you’d told people about the living situation and I understand if you want to keep that private.”
“It’s no big deal.” True, he didn’t like people knowing his business but he couldn’t keep Kennedy under wraps, as much as he’d like to. “They’re huge gossips and would jump to conclusions anyway. As far as they’re concerned we’re banging six ways from Sunday on every surface in the apartment.”
“Yeah, pretty crazy idea. Hot hockey player, gorgeous dog-walker, close quarters. Who’d jump to a conclusion there?” She winked, eminently amused with herself. “Happy to be your cover, roomie.”
“No—I mean I’ll put them straight.”
“I don’t care what they think, to be honest.” Her eyes were bright lights, obviously enjoying the notion of fooling his teammates. “Oh, I’m sorry. You wanted to tell me something?”
“I’m going to take a nap in my room.”
She nodded, confused. “Okay.”
“I’ll leave the door open for Bucky to come and go but I’d appreciate if you didn’t make too much noise if you’re walking by.”
“Oh, right! Sorry, am I making too much noise now?” She moved away from the door. “Let me turn this down.”
He peeked in. No efforts to make it more personal except for the watercolor still standing on the nightstand beside the potted plant. He wasn’t sure why that bothered him. Did he truly want her to make the place her own?
“No, it’s fine. I’m just letting you know.”
She held his gaze for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Pulling the door open fully, she closed the gap, her hand immediately stretching to touch his jaw. He did everything in his power not to lean into it. He could get to like that too much.
“No, there is. You look pale.”
“I have a headache, that’s all. I get them sometimes so I’m going to lie down.”
“What kind of headache?”
“A migraine.” He should withdraw from her t
ouch, but to be honest it was making him feel much better. “I’ve had them before. It’s something that goes away with sleep.”
“Did you take something for it?”
“I will. I just wanted to give you a heads up about the open door to my room.”
“Sure. Should I wake you at a particular time? I have to head out soon, but I can call you later and make sure you don’t oversleep or anything.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just go about your day.” But without making noise. That was all, pretty simple.
“Got it.”
On tip toes, Kennedy crept past Reid’s open door, then stopped to listen. A triangle of light from outside created a geometric spotlight for her to stand in and she quickly stepped outside it, not wanting to disturb him.
Why are you standing there in that triangle of light?
Oh, me? Just watching you like a creeper.
Normally she wouldn’t worry about something like this. Just a migraine, after all. But Reid had appeared so pale. Migraines were debilitating for some people, and it was strange to see the usually robust rock of an athlete looking like he’d been clobbered with a hockey stick.
He was laid out on the bed, positioned on his stomach, with Bucky by his side. He looked peaceful and untroubled. And hot, of course, as in unbearably handsome.
Bucky hopped off the bed and rushed by her, as if he’d seen a mouse. So highly-strung.
“What’s wrong?” A sleepy voice called out.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
He raised his head. “Is Bucky okay?”
“He’s fine. He just ran out like he was chasing something.” She backed into the shadows. “Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”
“Kennedy,” he murmured, his voice sleep-rusty. He patted the bed. “Come here.”
“I should let you rest. Give me a shout if you need anything.”
“I thought you had to go out.”
She stepped inside. “Class was canceled. I’ll be on hand to look after things.”
His eyes fluttered closed, then opened again. “My head hurts.”
“It does?” She moved forward quickly, laying her palm on his forehead. Not clammy or feverish. “More than before?”
“No, the same.” He grasped her wrist. “Stay and talk to me. But not too loud.”
“It would be better if you slept.” But she might feel better if she talked to him. Make sure he wasn’t delirious or unusually groggy or even nauseous. She had no idea why she felt such anxiety.
Her mom used to get migraines. Sometimes they’d be cooking together and they would strike her like a two-by-four. Kennedy had always felt so helpless, hating to see someone she loved in pain and desperate to do anything to relieve it.
She sat on the edge of the bed, though Reid still held her wrist. He moved his thumb over her pulse point and stroked. Her heartbeat reacted predictably.
“Talk to me, roomie,” he murmured.
“You’re sick.”
“I want to hear your voice. Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
What a curious request. She thought about it for a moment, digging into her repertoire. “I can recall the plot of every Columbo episode. Just name the actor-murderer and I remember how the deed was done. Assuming you know your Columbo.” Columbo had been her dad’s favorite TV show. The man had a killer Peter Falk impression.
“I remember some of them. Mr. Spock was in one, I think.”
“Ooh, Leonard Nimoy! A particularly deadly episode with three murders. Dissolving suture, tire iron to the head, forced drug overdose.”
“Dick Van Dyke?”
“Fake-kidnaps his nagging wife than shoots her.”
“Damn, that’s quite the talent. I can’t think of any more Columbo episodes.”
She was impressed he even remembered those. Not everyone was as tapped into the seventies TV oeuvre as Kennedy. Those afternoons after school, watching reruns with her dad, were among her most cherished memories. They would hang in the den while he expounded on why Barney Miller was the most underrated sitcom ever or how the true stars of Starsky & Hutch were Antonio Fargas and the car. Benjamin Clark had opinions, kind of like Reid.
“Everyone’s got a hidden talent,” she said, putting those memories back in their box. “What’s yours?”
He frowned, or maybe it was his hurting head getting the best of him. “I’m only good at hockey.”
“That’s not true. You’re amazing with Bucky. Your vegetable chopping skills are coming along by leaps and bounds. And no one, I mean no one, can wither like you can.”
“Wither?”
“The withering look. The one that makes someone want to shrivel up and die.” Really it was an incinerate-all-panties look but she couldn’t say that.
“I should use that in the games. Wither the competition.”
Incinerate all jock straps? It could work.
She thought of something that might resonate more. “If you were a superhero, what powers would you have?”
“Telepathy.”
“Because?”
“I usually can tell what my opponents are thinking, but I’d like to know for sure. It’d give me an advantage on the ice.”
Sounded awful. “I’d hate to know what other people are thinking. You’d have to be really thick-skinned and not care that someone called you a bitch because you drove too close to her side mirror or that so-and-so you thought was your friend hates you for a reason you can’t fathom.”
His eyebrow clearly disapproved of her weakness. “I don’t care what people think of me, but I’d like to know why someone hates me. All stuff I can use.”
Of course Reid would see the benefit of that. “Okay, your turn.”
“What’s one thing that people wouldn’t believe is true about you?”
Good question, Mr. Durand. “That I have an IQ of 154.”
“Smarty pants, huh?”
Not always—witness her presence in this room—but she tested well. “Hard to believe, right?”
“Why do you think people wouldn’t believe that about you?”
“People take one look and make a call, don’t they? My hair, the way I dress, my attitude, my jobs. Those are all ways we judge people and some people might say I’m not that smart if I’m always broke and scrounging for employment.”
“There are different kinds of intelligence. The kind that gets you a well-paying job is different than the kind that has given you skills to adapt and survive. Or whatever intelligence is needed to look after animals. I don’t have that. I’m trying to learn it, but it’s a skillset I have to acquire rather than something innate like what you have.”
What a nice thing to say. She knew she had other kinds of intelligence. She’d never considered herself book smart, but she had emotional smarts and chameleon skills, advantages not always appreciated in our money-making, beauty-obsessed world.
They stayed there for a moment, drinking each other in, and she wondered if this was a good idea. Talking with Reid, even a sick Reid, was sexy.
She wanted more. “What’s your most prized possession?”
“Bucky.” No hesitation. If that didn’t get a girl’s hormones popping, then nothing would. She could make a smart-ass comment about ownership of another creature being patriarchal or colonial, or that the Buddha thought you can only own your words or actions. But she knew what he meant. He and Bucky belonged to each other.
“What about you?”
“My independence.” He maintained the stroke over her wrist, a sensuous encouragement to elaborate. It worked. She hadn’t shared this much in years. “I love that I’m not tied to any one place or feel trapped in any way. I’m a one-woman show and I make my own path.”
“But you have your grandmother.”
“She’s my closest relative, I suppose. Not by blood, but we have a close bond.” She lay alongside him, leaning up on her elbow.
“If she’s not a blood relative, how do you know her?”
“She was married to my grandfather.”
He nodded, not questioning further, though she almost wished he had. Now that she’d opened up some, she wanted to tell him about her parents, how she missed them so much the ache still throbbed in her heart all these years later. Why she felt this constant urge to move. To keep busy.
But she shouldn’t make it all about her when she was merely a guest in his home and his life. Instead she returned the conversation to him. “How long have you had these migraines?”
“On and off for years. It’s not anything serious but sometimes it knocks me out. That’s why I’m careful about my diet, my regimen. A lot of things can trigger them.”
“I should let you sleep.”
“I’ve lost my sleeping buddy. Stay a while.”
Shifting her position, she lay her head down on the pillow, facing him. Usually when they spoke on their ships-passing moments in the kitchen, she was conscious of how much taller he was, at least a foot. Meeting him at eye-level in the intimate half-dark was more comforting than she expected.
He released her wrist, but she didn’t take her hand back, not when she was this close to him. She brushed his hair from his forehead and softly stroked the side of his head.
“Does this bother you?”
“No, it’s nice.” His eyes flickered like butterfly wings. He must be trying to stay awake.
“Go to sleep, Reid.”
Thankfully, he did.
16
Kennedy awoke from a lovely dream where someone was lapping at her with a warm and wet—oh, crap! This better not be some sitcom quality deal where she found the dog licking her face.
She peeled open her eyes. Just a dream, thank God, no actual face licking. The room was dark, though a sliver of light had snuck through from the hallway, shining on the spot where Bucky would usually be. He must be off, snacking.
Her body felt lethargic, weighted, and it took her a moment to realize why.
A hand was splayed between her breasts, not favoring one or the other, just lodged in neutral cleavage territory. Reid’s hand along with Reid’s nose in her hair and Reid’s … oh, a lot more Reid. They were spooning and the big spoon was made of stainless steel.
