by RJ Scott
“Apology accepted.”
There was silence for a while, and he shifted his weight on the sofa, letting out a sigh of frustration until she passed him pillows so he could support his arm.
“Did you like the journal and the pen?”
She paused before speaking. What did she say? Would it be rude to throw it back at him, or would it be going against all her principles to keep the gifts?
“You didn’t have to send me gifts,” she began.
He laughed, “That’s a first.”
Silence again, enough of it that the questions she had actually formed into words. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s a first?”
“A woman not wanting a gift.”
Resentment bit hard. “Believe it or not, not every woman out there is easily bought, or easily kissed, come to think of it.” She moved to get up, but he stopped her, not with a firm grip, but the softest of touches on her arm.
“Please stay. I promise I didn’t mean that.”
She moved her arm, and he made a move to stand.
“Look, I’m an idiot at this. I’m nearly thirty, and the longest relationship I’ve ever had is with my Leafs cap.” He sat back down from his position halfway up off the sofa.
“A cap.”
“No, a Leafs cap. It’s over twenty years old, and I was the biggest fan.”
“Of caps.”
“No, of the Toronto Maple Leafs.”
A hockey team she’d heard of, mostly because of a particularly brutal game a few weeks ago that the guys had talked about at the firehouse. She’d watched the highlights on Kat’s phone. Kat had thrust it under her nose and used curse words Jo had never heard from her mouth before.
“Ryan got into a fight,” Jo said. Something about the way Alex sat unmoving had her wanting him to talk again.
“Yeah.” He sighed audibly. “They were all over Loki, and he flipped out. Good job, too, because it got the blood pumping and we won four-three in overtime.” He laughed. “So you like hockey, then.”
She winced at that, and half turned on the sofa to face him. “Will it offend you if I say no?”
He gasped and clutched his chest dramatically. “What?”
“I like athletics, gymnastics, and I didn’t come from a hockey family.” She sounded like she was defending herself, like it was important that he accept why she wasn’t a hockey fan, so she tagged on a quick addendum. “I could like it if I tried, I guess.” She made it sound like she wasn’t bothered, but at the back of her mind was the hit she’d seen to Loki, and the way Ryan had jumped on the guy who’d pushed Loki into the boards. It had been pent-up anger, a bromance of epic proportions, and violence all wrapped up into one exciting moment.
“I’ll leave you some tickets at will-call.”
“Nic, I mean, Loki, he already does that. Tickets, I mean,” she said, still stumbling over the use of Nicolas Lecour’s hockey nickname when Kat still called her brother Nic.
“I never see you there,” he said, and leaned a little closer, his good arm along the back of the sofa. “I think I would have noticed you.”
She huffed. “Does that line work on most women?”
“That wasn’t a line.”
“It so was.”
He had the good grace to look mildly ashamed, and dipped his head. “Okay, but it’s true.”
Yeah, right. There was no way she believed he would have noticed her in the crowds of blonde bimbos that held up signs and near flashed their perfect chests at him and his team. They sat in peace again for a moment, and she stared out at the gardens, trying to pull at the threads of what she’d come up here to do.
Center herself. Think about her dad. Work her way through the grieving like her counselor said. Then present herself back into polite company.
“And thank you, for getting my jacket free and yanking me out of that car.”
“It’s my job.”
“You’re strong.”
“I’m trained.”
“Why did you want to be a firefighter?”
“Why did you want to be a hockey player?”
He didn’t seem fazed by the change in direction. “You first.”
“No, you first.”
He laughed at that and then began to explain. “I’m Canadian, it’s wired into my DNA. My dad was a goalie way back, and my sisters and I played hockey as soon as we could walk. I love it; it’s in my blood.”
“What part of Canada are you from?”
“Vancouver. Well, up near Whistler, actually—my father worked there, but he’s originally from Quebec, hence the last name, and before you ask, my grasp of French is limited to mostly curse words and endearments.”
That made her smile. “So you grew up around hockey, and you’ve done well. I mean, you’re captain of the Dragons. Do you like it?”
“Yep,” he said, popping the P.
“That was a short answer.”
He laughed. “It was an easy question. I miss it at the moment, being stuck not being able to skate. Well, I mean, I can still skate—I’m on the ice on Saturday—but I can’t have contact.” He waved his arm in its cast. “But I couldn’t imagine going more than a couple of days without ice time.”
She was horrified that he would go out on the ice with a fracture in his arm. “What if you fall over?”
“I don’t fall over.”
The confidence in his voice was bordering on arrogance, but he wouldn’t be the captain if he spent too much time on his ass, right?
“You fell over in that Leafs game I saw highlights of,” she couldn’t help but tease.
“Ouch. Well, for your information, that wasn’t falling over, that was being shoved to the ice and as a result skidding at high speed into the wall.”
“Oh, there’s a difference, then?” She couldn’t believe how she was bantering with him.
“Such a difference,” he began, tongue in cheek. “One is embarrassing as you trip head over ass, the other is manly and exciting.”
He laughed then, and she couldn’t help but join in.
“So, your turn,” he prompted. “I know firefighter uniforms are sexy and all, but why you, why that career? It can’t be easy being a woman in among all those men. Did you dress up as a firefighter when you were little?”
“At my firehouse, it’s a good team, where each person is treated as being the best at what they do, and there’s respect. And to answer your question, no, I was always the princess when we dressed up as kids.”
“Disney? My sister was always Cinderella, and I had to be the prince.”
“Of course, only the best, but I was always Belle. Actually, my degree is in art history, so I always had my head buried in a book as a child when I wasn’t sketching frogs.”
“Frogs?”
“I just loved their buggy eyes—what can I say?” She smiled. He was making her smile, and that was something she wanted to grab and hold on to. “I only discovered what I really wanted to do a year back.”
“An epiphany?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“What happened?”
“When my dad died, the way he died… It was an industrial accident, and the firefighters who attended, they gave us hope. They helped. I want to help.” Last thing she wanted was to pick at old wounds until she was raw and bleeding, but somehow it seemed okay to tell him.
“Sorry,” he apologized again, and she wanted to tell him to stop saying sorry for everything, but didn’t.
They subsided into silence again, but it was comfortable, and she didn’t feel like her space was being invaded, even though it blatantly had been.
“Jo, would you like to get dinner sometime?” he asked after a while, his voice snapping her out of her daydream.
“Dinner?”
“Yep, tomorrow. Or lunch—whatever fits into your schedule.”
“What for?” she asked stupidly, a little thrown by the question.
“To eat, stare into each other’s eyes, that kind of thing. I mean, I’d lik
e that; you have pretty eyes.”
“Oh.” And there she was, completely lost for words.
“So, is that a yes?” He sounded stupidly hopeful, which was directly opposite to what she would have expected.
“I’m not sure we should do that, I mean, with working…” No, that was the wrong direction to go, because he pounced on that immediately.
“We don’t work together, we just have this weird accident connection, and I’d love to sit and eat with you.”
“Okay, lunch is fine.” Lunch meant she didn’t need to dress up and worry about aiming for glamorous. Lunch meant jeans, a nice shirt maybe, and boots? She realized she had mentally organized what she was wearing, and that was a hundred kinds of scary.
“Also,” he began, and leaned in closer. “Could we just clear the air with a proper kiss?”
“What?” She blinked at him, and it was her turn to sound stupid, without the extra hopeful bit.
He wriggled a little closer, moving the pillow and cupping her face with his hand. It was achingly intimate, the way he cradled her face and looked directly at her.
“Can I just have one kiss?” he asked.
She leaned in and kissed him quickly, then pressed her cheek to his hand. “There you go.”
He moved his hand and wound his fingers into her hair. “So soft,” he murmured, and she felt the slightest scratch of his nails as he carded his fingers through hair and to her scalp. He was going to pull her forward, and for a second she hesitated. He held her steady as he edged nearer, and then he kissed her, tilted his head and rested his lips on hers, the tip of his tongue touching her lip, and on a groan, she opened her mouth.
God, he could kiss. Each toe-curling sexy taste of him, the way he held her still, the concentration he put into making that one kiss count…there was no way she was pulling away. If anything, she wanted to hold on, lifting the hand not trapped between them and gripping the back of his neck to hold him close.
Who knew a kiss could have that much power?
They separated slowly. “Okay?” he asked.
“What was that?” she asked, because that hadn’t been a quick and simple kiss; that had been a promise of more.
“A sorry, a hello, and everything in between,” Alex said, and sat back on his end of the sofa. He sounded poetic; was it possible that he wasn’t just a jock without a brain, but someone who actually thought about things other than hockey?
“You have a way with words,” she said, and drew her legs up under her, half turning to face him.
He looked surprised by that. “I do?”
She changed the subject. “So tell me about being a captain.”
“It’s an honor,” he said immediately. A soundbite if she’d ever heard one. “To have the faith of the team in me is a real honor.”
Was that the only thing he was going to say? Seemed a little superficial to her.
“Is it hard work? Does the team listen to you? Do you have a lot to worry about on top of hockey? Is it a management thing where there are lots of meetings you have to go to? That answer sounds pretty rehearsed.”
He winced at the questions, and she began to apologize, but he held up a hand. “I’m used to questions. I just have certain things that I’m expected to say.”
“Like what?”
“Have you ever listened to the post-game interviews?”
“No.”
“Say we’ve lost a game. Then I’ll be ‘disappointed’, but then you have to add on how we lost. Did we lose because we were shit, or because their goalie stood on his head to save shots? Do I feel responsible, not just as a captain, but as a player? Did we try our best?”
“Okay, so say you’ve lost, and it was a big loss, like twenty to one or something.”
He snorted at that. “Twenty? You really don’t know hockey, do you?”
“Sorry.”
“No, hell.” He laughed again, and visibly relaxed into the sofa, his foot up on the coffee table in front of them. “It’s cool that you’re not talking to me because of the game I play, is all.”
“So twenty to one wouldn’t happen.”
“Not at our level, no, but let’s say we lost five one, against a team that’s lower than us in the rankings, a team nowhere near the chance of a playoff place. In the locker room after, you have media availability, and they’re asking you questions, and I might say something like…” He paused and tilted his head, and he suddenly went from relaxed to tense, as if donning the persona of a recently screwed-over team captain. “We would have liked to see our recent winning streak continue, but I think that sometimes we can stand to lose a couple of games in order to play better. We haven’t deserved to win the last couple of games, so we’ve got to find a way to get back on track. A loss will make us realize that we’ve got to be better. Then I would praise the other team—always find something positive to say about your opponents.”
“And what if you win?”
“Hmm, well that’s more like, it’s great to see our recent winning streak continue, good for the morale of the team. We’ve deserved to win the last couple of games, our forecheck is strong, but we could stand to make some improvements on our power play. Then I would praise the other team.”
“So it’s all about being even and respectful, and making sure you don’t come over as arrogant when all you want to do is moan if you’ve lost and whoop if you’ve won.”
“Pretty much.”
“And you’ve just played all the quarters to get to this point, and you’re exhausted?”
“Three.”
“Three quarters?”
“Three periods. Each at twenty minutes.”
She could have sat there for a long time listening to his voice, not following a lot of the things he was saying but watching the way he became animated about hockey. Thing was, they were technically there to have photos taken, and it hit her that she had to be the sensible one. They really did need to get back downstairs. Oddly enough, just listening to his deep voice as he deliberated on the forecheck, whatever that was, was enough for the grief and anxiety inside her to subside.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Kat said from behind them, startling Jo and making Alex curse under his breath. “Have you seen Alex? He’s vanished, and we need a—”
“Here,” Alex interrupted, and moved slowly to stand up. “Just resting my arm,” he explained.
Jo saw the quick look that Kat threw between her and Alex, and the accompanying smirk; then she was all business, peering at her watch in the half dark.
“Eleven-ten,” Alex offered, his face lit by the glow from his watch.
“People will be leaving soon, and we need to announce the winners of the silent auction.”
Alex stretched a little. Jo tried not to look. “Autographs on the winners’ items, yeah.”
Jo followed them downstairs. Even injured, Alex still managed to get past the large pot, and she couldn’t help thinking that it would take a hell of a lot to flatten Alexandre Simard.
She slipped on her heels, automatically feeling like she was back on the job. Mitch found her, held her arm, and guided her to the table for the auction. “They need you,” he murmured.
At least like that, she wouldn’t get cornered by Swanson again, although he did cast one look at her that made her feel like he had a lot more to say to her. One inference about her inability to do the job and juggle babies was enough in one night. Not that he’d outright said anything about babies, but there’d been a lot of passive-aggressive hinting. Revenge was sweet; he didn’t get the thing he’d been bidding on, one of Alex’s sticks apparently. Instead it went to a woman who was giddy with excitement and whose husband shook his head when she kissed Alex on the cheek. Alex just smiled and caught Jo’s eyes, winking to underscore the smile.
Mitch moved between them, talking about leaving and was that okay, and when he was entirely past, Alex had turned back to the group of men he was standing with. They were all impressive to look at: Kat’s brother,
Nicolas; Ryan; a big, really big guy with dark hair, who looked pissed about something; and, with his back to her, Alex.
“Ready?” Mitch asked.
They hadn’t set a time for lunch, or a place, and likely it meant nothing. Anyway, she had other things she needed to do, like studying, and then chilling on her off day.
“Yeah,” she said. Disappointment curled inside her, with Alex for that kiss and how it had made her feel, and with herself for being such an idiot. She should just walk over and ask about the time, believe that he’d actually meant to say something.
Embarrassed, she began to follow Mitch, when something made her stop. She wanted to go to lunch with the big hockey player. He made her feel right, and she was being stupid walking out.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” she said, and turned on her heel, heading straight to where Alex stood, tapping him on the shoulder.
He turned, and his serious expression morphed into a smile. “We never set a time,” he said. “And I’ll need your address.” He pulled out his phone. “Just give me your number and I’ll text you.”
They exchanged numbers.
“Can I’m get number also?” one of the other players said, his voice heavily accented. Russian, maybe?
“Back off,” Alex said, and punched the man in the arm.
“Nikita Gulin,” the man persevered, and stuck out a hand, which Jo took. He twisted his hold to kiss the back of hers, then shook his head. “Disappoint I’m not see first.”
Alex moved bodily between her and Nikita. “Ignore Gooly,” he muttered, and cast a look of warning back at his friend. Then he took her hand and made a show of wiping the back of it before kissing it in the same place.
She didn’t know what to do with herself, where to look, so she murmured a good night to everyone and left as fast as she could in heels.
Only when she was back in Mitch’s car did she relax.
“You snagging yourself a player?” Mitch asked as soon as they were on the freeway.
“What?” She hadn’t exactly been paying attention.
“A millionaire, player, hockey…any of these things ring a bell? You disappeared, so I assumed…” He left off saying anything else. He wasn’t digging at her; it was only what he’d say to another firefighter if they were in the car and they’d vanished off somewhere. Still…though the accusation may not have been explicit, it was still there.
