Playing The Game
A York Bombers Hockey Novel
Book 1
Lisa. B. Kamps
Playing The Game
Copyright © 2017 by Elizabeth Belbot Kamps
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the express written permission of the author.
The York Bombers is a fictional semi-professional ice hockey team, its name and logo created for the sole use of the author.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name or names, living or dead. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any individual, place, business, or event is purely coincidental.
Photographer: CJC Photography
http://www.cjc-photography.com
Cover Model: Josh Voto
www.Instagram.com/whoisjoshvoto
Artwork and Cover Design by Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art
http://www.simplydefinedart.com/
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Other titles by this author
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
PLAYING TO WIN preview
PLAYING FOR KEEPS preview
CROSSING THE LINE preview
ONCE BURNED preview
About the Author
Other titles by this author
For Michele Polich, who first introduced me to hockey all those years ago!
Other titles by this author:
THE BALTIMORE BANNERS
Crossing the Line, Book 1
Game Over, Book 2
Blue Ribbon Summer, Book 3
Body Check, Book 4
Break Away, Book 5
Playmaker, A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella
Delay of Game, Book 6
Shoot Out, Book 7
The Baltimore Banners: 1st Period Trilogy
Books 1-3 Boxed set
The Baltimore Banners: 2nd Period Trilogy
Books 4-6 Boxed set
On Thin Ice, Book 8
Coach's Challenge, A Baltimore Banners Intermission Novella
One-Timer, Book 9
Face Off, Book 10
Game Misconduct, Book 11
Fighting To Score, Book 12
Matching Penalties, Book 13
THE YORK BOMBERS
Playing The Game, Book 1
Playing To Win, Book 2
Playing For Keeps, Book 3
Playing It Up, Book 4
Playing It Safe, Book 5
Playing For Love, Book 6
Playing His Part, Book 7
THE CHESAPEAKE BLADES
Winning Hard, Book 1
Loving Hard, Book 2
Playing Hard, Book 3
FIREHOUSE FOURTEEN
Once Burned, Book 1
Playing With Fire, Book 2
Breaking Protocol, Book 3
Into the Flames, Book 4
Second Alarm, Book 5
Feel The Burn, Book 6
Coming Soon
STAND-ALONE TITLES
Emeralds and Gold: A Treasury of Irish Short Stories (anthology)
Finding Dr. Right
Time To Heal
Dangerous Passion
Dangerous Heat
Illicit Affair
Coming Soon
Be sure to sign up for Lisa's newsletter, Kamps' Korner, for exciting news, sneak peeks, exclusive content, and fun, games, and giveaways! You don’t want to miss it!
Can't wait for the newsletter? Need to get your fix of hockey, firefighters, passion and news daily? Then please join Lisa and a great group of readers and fans at Kamps Korner on Facebook!
Prologue
Hands, small and smooth, trailed across his body. Delicate, almost hesitant. His skin burned wherever they touched. Only his tightly-reined control kept his body from arching, kept him from reaching, seeking.
He held himself still, only his chest moving with each harsh gasp of air that shuddered through him. But fuck, he wanted to touch her. Needed to touch her. To feel the softness of her skin, the dampness of her flesh under his own.
"Don't move." Her whispered words were more of a command than a plea. Harland sucked in another breath and dug his hands into the mattress. A brief spurt of thankfulness shot through him that it wasn't a cheap mattress, in a cheap motel that rented rooms by the hour.
Or worse, in the backseat of the beat-up junker he was embarrassed to call his own.
They were back at his house, behind the locked door of his stuffy room. The late afternoon sun streaked through the cracked blinds, adding to the heat that settled around them. But it was more than the heat of the midsummer afternoon. It was the heat of them, of their bodies twisted together, slick skin against slick skin.
He had planned for this day for too long. Planned? Hell, he'd wished for this day. Dreamt about it. Fantasized about it.
The fantasy didn't come close to the reality.
He knew how precious the gift was that she was giving him, knew what it would cost her. And he wished he could give her more. So much more. She deserved wine and roses and diamonds and candlelight—things he didn't have to give her. One day, though, when he made it big. She'd have all of that and more.
But for now, there were no flowers. No fluffy mattress and satin sheets or soft music. He did have candlelight, though. A pair of crappy dusty pillar candles he'd found shoved in the back of a cabinet that were supposed to smell like vanilla and spice but smelled more like musty wax, which was better than the scent of old hamburger grease and stale cigarettes that permeated the small house where he lived.
It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered except the two of them, their naked bodies entwined together, flesh firm and soft and slick.
And her touch. God, her touch. Had he imagined it like this? No, not even close. And when her trembling hand finally closed around him, her touch soft and sweet and gentle and shy, he nearly lost it.
Harland clenched his jaw and tilted his head back, searching for control. This was wrong, it shouldn't be like this. This was supposed to be about her, not him. He wanted her to feel what he felt, wanted their first time together—her first time—to be special. Magical.
His hands closed over her shoulders in a gentle grip, the ends of her silky fine hair caressing his wrists. She looked up at him, brown eyes innocent and wide and filled with emotions she probably didn't want him to see.
The same emotions he felt tearing him apart inside. No, not tearing. Not unless tearing was supposed to make you feel all those girlie things, like being warm and mushy and gooey.
"Am I doing something wrong?"
Harland groaned at the uncertainty in her voice. He cleared his throat and shook his head, his mouth too dry to form words. He tightened the grip on her shoulders and shook his head again, turning so she was sprawled under his own body. And God, he was stretched out right between her legs, the tip of his cock so close. All he had to do was tilt his hips, just a little, and he'd be inside her—
No. Not yet.
"Nothing's wrong. I want you to feel what I feel."
She looked up at him, her wide eyes full of trust, and smiled. Damn her smile. It got him every single time, always had, for as long as he'd known her. Even when they were little kids and he'd chase her around the block, her smile would do him in, make him stumble and crash to a halt. And he'd be in so much trouble if any of his friends ever found that out.
But he wasn't with his friends. He was with her. His best friend. His soulmate.
And soon to be his lover.
"Nothing's wrong." He repeated the words in a hoarse choke and leaned down to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned up, pressing the firmness of her small breasts against him. Then she tilted her hips and rubbed against him, nearly shattering what little control he had.
"Please, Harland. I'm ready."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I will, we both know—"
She covered his mouth with two fingers and shook her head, the trust so clear in her deep eyes. "Only for a little bit. And not on purpose."
"No, not on purpose."
"Never on purpose. I know that."
Harland nodded and tried to swallow but his throat felt too tight, like it was clogged with something. He shifted his hips, the tip of his cock entering the tight warmth of her body. She stiffened under him then relaxed, her legs parting a little more.
He pushed again, hesitating when he reached the tight barrier protecting her innermost secret. Short nails dug into his arms but she didn't push him away. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist and tilted her hips toward his until the barrier broke and he was seated fully inside her.
"Harland." His name was part sigh, part cry, unleashing some primitive emotion deep inside him. He kissed her, long and hard, then braced himself on his elbows above her.
"I'll never hurt you again. Ever. I love you."
Chapter One
"Fuck!"
"Get your head in the fucking game, Day-glo, and that won't happen again." Jason Emory skated behind Harland, reaching for the puck that had just bounced off his ankle. Harland shot him a death glare then shook his foot. Yeah, his ankle still stung and yeah, he'd have a bruise there later. But Jason was right: if he'd been paying attention, the puck would have never hit him.
And he needed to be paying attention, now more than ever.
Training camp was over and he was still here. That had to count as some kind of miracle, especially after the last year. Screwing up on the ice, screwing up off the ice. Getting sent back here to the Bombers instead of playing pro with the Banners.
And his fucking head still wasn't in the game, not to where it needed to be. But damn it all, did it even matter? His chances of making it back to the pros were slim. He could see the writing on the wall, in each steady look the coaching staff sent his way. Like they were waiting for him to fuck up again. Because that's what he did: fucked things up.
Not just a little. Hell no, that would be too simple. He had to go out of his way to be a royal fuck up. Class A, head-of-the-line, numero uno fuck up. Go out of his way? Yeah, even that was a joke. He didn't have to go out of his way—it came natural. Almost like he was deliberately doing his best to destroy everything.
And why not? Wasn't that what he did best?
Harland tightened his grip on the stick and pushed off, gaining speed as he headed down the ice. Fast. Faster. Turning and skating backward, tapping with his stick. Jason shot the puck toward him and Harland tipped it with the blade, barely stopping it. He pulled it in closer, spun around, took a crazy shot at the net.
The puck hit the pipes and bounced off with a loud clang that echoed around the nearly-empty rink. Harland slid to a stop and swung the stick through the air like a bat, catching it against the pipes so hard it broke in two.
"Nice. Real nice." Jason slid to a stop just in front of him, covering Harland's legs with a spray of snow. He pushed his helmet back on his head and sent a stream of spit off to the side then glanced down at the broken stick. "How the fuck did you even miss that?"
Wasn't that the million-dollar question? Hell, if Harland knew the answer he'd be able to fix it. The problem was, he didn't know the answer. That's why he was here now, putting in more time on the ice. Not that it was doing any good. It wasn't. And he was very much afraid that if he didn't find the answer—soon—he might as well just give it up now.
Just pack it up and walk away. Yeah, that was one thing he was good at: walking away.
Not just walking away. Fucking things up beyond repair and then walking away. Yeah, he had to make sure there was no going back, not when he was done with something.
Harland reached for the broken half of the stick, not quite able to look Jason in the eye when he straightened. "My game is totally fucked."
"You think?" Jason shot another stream of spit across the ice then fixed Harland with his patented intense stare from those creepy glacier-blue eyes. "When's the last time you got laid?"
"Really? This has nothing to do with getting a piece."
Jason shrugged. "You never know. Zach Mummert swears scoring off-ice helps him score on-ice."
"Yeah, right. Until his dick falls off from putting it in the wrong bunny. No thanks, I'll pass." Harland pushed away from the net, his stride slow and smooth.
"Since when do you have anything against bunnies?"
"I don't. But man, come on. The way Zach goes through them? And some of the ones he hooks up with? No way. He's just asking for trouble."
"Yeah, well. He must be doing something right because his shooting was on fire last season. You saw it."
Harland grunted but didn't say anything. What was there to say? Yeah, he saw it—from the bench where he'd spent most of his time. And fuck, he so didn't want to think about that. Not now. Thinking about it just pissed him off. Made him want to give up instead of fight.
He still had a chance. That was what he needed to focus on. Today. Tomorrow. Not yesterday. And he sure as hell didn't need to be thinking about six years ago, either. Or even three. No more thinking about the past. No more wishful thinking and playing what-if, either. That was just as bad, and part of what got him into this whole fucking mess.
"So." Jason slid around him, blocking him when he tried to reach for the latch on the door. "You ever going to tell me what happened?"
"With what?"
"You know what. What happened. Last year."
"Nothing happened."
"Bull fucking shit. We all watched you implode. It was worse than a fucking car wreck on I-83 at rush hour. So fess up, Day-glo. What happened?"
"Stop with the name. I hate that fucking name." Harland tried to push past him but Jason wouldn't budge.
"Too damn bad. So what happened?"
"Nothing. I'm not getting into it." Harland's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched into a tight fist inside his glove. One more time. That was all Jason had to do: ask him one more time, and everything would explode. Harland could feel it building inside him, hot and hard and growing, like he was suddenly a pressure cooker on the verge of malfunctioning.
Jason must have seen something in his eyes, or maybe in just the way Harland's body tensed. Something. He shook his head and stepped back, not saying anything as they moved off the ice.
Harland shouldn't have been surprised, though. It wasn't the first time someone had questioned him, although the others had at least been a little subtler. And it wouldn't be the last time, he was sure.
It wasn't a question he had any intention of answering. Ever. How could he, when he wasn't entirely su
re of the answer? Yeah, he knew exactly what had happened, he wasn't that out of it. He kept fucking up until his life spiraled downhill. Until his whole game turned to shit. And the Banners had tired of it, had tired of giving him a chance to fix it, so they reassigned him back here. He had hoped, for one fleeting moment, that maybe he'd be picked up on waivers. That maybe another team would give him a chance.
Stupid. So fucking stupid. He'd cleared waivers—of course he did, because who else would want him?—and now here he was, back to playing in the minors. He just didn't know why. Why had his game—his life—gone to shit? What had happened to finally push him over the ledge to where he was now? Why had he stopped caring?
He knew the answer—he just didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to admit how weak and foolish he'd been. How naïve and stupid. Yeah, he knew what happened—he just didn't want to think about it. And he was usually pretty good at ignoring it. Usually.
Except on those rare occasions when he stopped to let himself think, usually at night after he'd had a few drinks. That's when the ghosts appeared. Taunting, laughing. But he always managed to push them away, afraid to face them. To listen to them. Hell, afraid to really acknowledge them. Because what he'd done was childish and embarrassing. Because it showed how weak he was. No, better off to do what he did best and just ignore it. Forget it. Keep it in the past.
Except, for some reason, all he kept thinking about was the past.
Just like a few minutes ago, when he'd been so caught up thinking about that afternoon six years ago. He was damn lucky the puck hadn't been airborne; if it had been, he'd be dealing with a lot more than a potentially bruised ankle.
It all came down to one thing: he needed to get—and keep—his fucking head in the game.
"What time did you want to meet up later?" Jason's question pulled his mind back to the present. He tossed the pads to the bench then yanked the damp shirt over his head, using the time to figure out what the hell Jason was talking about.
Oh yeah. It was a Friday. A few of them were going out tonight, kicking things up a bit. Not that the night of the week made any difference, not to him. "I don't care. What time's good for you?"
Playing the Game Page 1
