Mister Hockey

by Lia Riley

  Dedication

  To Jarah, you ARE a gift and I love you so much

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Announcement

  About the Author

  Also by Lia Riley

  A Letter from the Editor

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Jed West’s stomach curdled faster than overheated hollandaise sauce as he squinted at the menu for Zachary’s, Denver’s popular all-day breakfast hangout. Ghostlike shadows haunted the specials list, blurring the descriptions for peanut butter French toast, country fried steak benedict and sweet potato pancakes. Ah, shit. Not fucking now. There went the prices too—the dollar signs and numbers blurring until barely legible.

  No point blinking. He knew the drill. Jaw tight, he reached for his orange juice, took a swig and waited. Short bouts of double vision had dogged him ever since game seven, the pattern the same. After a minute or two, his focus would snap back to normal as if nothing had happened. Until then, he needed to follow one of Coach’s favorite axioms: Suck it up, buttercup.

  Who cared about the damn menu anyway? He pushed it to one side, having already ordered the “Hunger Blaster,” chorizo and eggs smashed between a jalapeño cheddar biscuit—the kind of breakfast that wanted to kill you in the best kind of ways—and crunched ice. Too bad the cubes didn’t pass on their chill, because this . . . situation for lack of a better word, was getting under his skin and it shouldn’t.

  No—scratch that. It couldn’t.

  Unexplained double vision wasn’t a walk in the park, but facts were facts. And the ugly truth was that if he didn’t quit batting his lashes like Scarlett O’Hara with a fly in her skirt, The Post’s toughest sports columnist would glance up from across the table, mistake his tic for a cheesedick wink, and go Lord of the Flies on his nut sack.

  At least for the moment, Neve Angel was occupied. She hunched over her digital voice recorder, dark bangs obscuring her sharp gaze as she fiddled with the control settings. Her lips moved to the upbeat Buddy Holly song piping over the sound system while she plucked a mic from her messenger bag. His vision came back online in time for him to read the orange button pinned to the front.

  Had a Ball at The Rock Creek Testicle Festival.

  Christ, looked to be an authentic souvenir too.

  Slamming his knees together, he forced a grin, the one that had potential endorsements lined up around the block, eager for him to shill everything from vitamin-infused coconut water to shaving cream. He unwrapped the paper napkin from around the fork and knife, and began tearing the corner into neat strips.

  No doubt the eye thing was fatigue-related, an inevitable toll from the grueling NHL season and subsequent hard-fought playoffs. Everything would be all right in the end. If it wasn’t all right, it wasn’t the end.

  “You plan on telling me what’s up with Mount Napkin Shreds?” Neve leaned her elbows on the recycled wood tabletop, a signal they were shifting into interview mode. Her brows arched beneath her thick-cut bangs. “Nervous about being in the hot seat, princess?”

  “Yeah, terrified,” he answered laconically, not missing a beat. Hiding his true feelings behind a mask of confidence was a reflex; it came with the territory of having the C stitched on the front of his jersey. A good captain never showed fear to an opponent. “A jackal’s bark is worse than its bite.”

  “Jackal? Don’t tell me you’re using Gunnarisms now.” She rolled her eyes. “And I’d so wanted to enjoy my bagel without gagging.”

  The Hellions head coach, Tor Gunnar, had a reputation for dismissing the press as “jackals.” He fostered a tense relationship with journalists, in particular, the tiny woman sitting opposite. Neve had run a piece on his divorce a few years ago. He retaliated by refusing to call on her during press conferences. Neve hit back with increasingly critical op-eds. Their mutual enmity had devolved to the stuff of local legend.

  “Big words, but don’t you and Coach G have a love-to-hate thing going?” Jed teased, “Could be masking some serious sexual tension, you should look into that. Plus if he got laid, he might smile more than once a year. The whole team would owe you one.”

  “Hmm,” Neve mused into her glass. “How many of these ice cubes could fit up your nose? Hard to say. My money is on ten. Five up each nostril.”

  He chuckled, sliding one of his arms over the back of the leather booth. A busser clearing a nearby table caught his idle glance and the top plate slammed against her chest, smearing ketchup over her white blouse.

  Jed pretended not to notice her flustered screech and instead focused on a framed poster that read A Yawn is a Silent Scream for Coffee. It never stopped being weird, even after all this time, to be that guy. The one who got the second look, the screams from the fans, slipped numbers scrawled on a bar napkin every time he went out for a beer. A few times a year, push-up bras came in the mail.

  When he landed on Cosmo’s Sexiest Men in Sport list last year, the guys on the team had given him a world of shit. “Miiiiiiister Hockey,” they’d catcall in the locker room, using the nickname from the article. “Strike a pose. Come on, man, do your best Blue Steel.”

  Not that female attention was bad. It was just that he woke up each morning and put on pants one leg at a time. He liked his job and was damn good at doing it, but it wasn’t pulling kids from burning buildings or defending his country. Hero worship could mess with a guy’s mind. Make him think he was invincible. And he’d seen firsthand where that kind of mentality could land an athlete.

  He massaged his left temple in a slow circle. Nowhere good.

  “There’s a story behind that frown.” Neve batted a lemon slice around her glass. “Should we start there?”

  “I have resting bitch face.” He refused to back down from her narrow-eyed scrutiny. Counted to ten. Four . . . five . . . six . . .

  “Nope. Normally you’re grinning like a monkey with a new banana,” she shot back.

  “Never got into bananas.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “More of a berry fan.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.” Neve ran out the clock with her usual tenacity. “Stay mysterious.”

  “Hey now. I’m serious.” He raked a hand through his hair, a subtle way to show off his championship ring. “Everything’s good in my world. Great even.”

  Yup. Except for the fact that he’d spent the morning in the Hellions screening room, poring over tapes from the final minutes of game seven. He’d taken a lead pass and skated into the Detroit zone. Score tied, adrenaline was high. Must have been the reason the Red Wings D-man sent the business end of his stick into Jed’s right eye socket.

  Jed had watched himself up on the flat screen push himself off the ice and wave away medical attention. It was surreal, like watching a movie about someone else’s life. He couldn’t remember a damn thing about those few minutes, but it appeared that even his lizard brain had an aversion to getting benched.

  The hit hadn’t been enough to fuck him though, right?

  “All right, all right. E
nough monkeying around, now you really are on record.” Neve clicked the red record button. Her voice dropped a half octave and took on a more formal affectation, as if she had morphed into a National Public Radio host. “Hello and welcome to another edition of Sports Heaven, with me, Neve, Denver’s favorite Angel,” she purred. “Today I’m lucky enough to be sitting down with Jed West, captain of the Denver Hellions. Thanks for chatting, Westy.”

  “Pleasure’s mine.” He drawled, lifting his empty pint glass in cheers, shoving the tapes to the hamper in the back of his mind.

  “Since getting traded from the Sharks, you’ve taken the Hellions all the way twice. Broken one of the longest losing streaks in NHL history and—”

  The raucous chorus to the song “All I Do is Win,” emanated from inside her blouse. “Shoot. Hang on.” She hit Pause and fished her phone from the gap in her shirt.

  “That’s one hell of a phone holder,” he deadpanned.

  “Hush.” Her small mouth went mulish. “A bra is a modern gal’s Swiss army knife. Now. Where was I?” She hit Play and steepled her fingers. “Ah, yes, the Westy magic. What’s your secret?”

  “I don’t know. The usual.” He grabbed a napkin shred from the pile in front of him and rolled the thin paper into a neat ball. “It’s like this, see . . . on full moons I lure a goat onto the ice, preferably a young one. Too old and they get ornery. There’s chanting. Followed by a naked drum circle. Then the ritual sacrifice complete with a—”

  “All I Do is Win” blared again.

  Neve ripped the phone from her cleavage and frowned at the screen. “It’s my sister. Breezy never calls during a workday. I’ve got to take this.” She clicked off the recorder and slammed the phone to her ear. “What’s wrong?” Two lines dented the skin between her brows. “Okay. Stop. Slow down, way, way down. Breathe. No. That’s hysterical laughter bordering on tears. I want breaths, deep ones from your diaphragm. Warmer. Warmer . . . better.” She gave a grim nod. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Yep. No, he didn’t! I don’t care a fig if it is the weather. I’ve always said he’s asshat. Me? Hmm.” She drummed her fingers, shooting him a considered look. “Got plans for the afternoon?”

  “Dunno.” Jed shrugged, not loving the gleam in her eye. “Getting interviewed by you, then going to lift at the gym.” Or commencing an online search for a discreet neurologist. “Why?”

  “Tor Gunnar was booked to headline a kiddie literacy event at the Rosedale Branch Library.” She pronounced the Hellion coach’s name the same way a Harry Potter character might curse Voldemort. Taking a swig of ice tea, as if to cleanse the name from her palate, she continued. “He had a charity golf event in Scottsdale and there’s been a weather delay with the airlines. The same crappy system dumping all the rain here is causing flash floods there. His flight’s canceled and that leaves my little sis stuck as a Head Children’s Librarian with no special guest and a community room filling with starry-eyed young hockey fans—”

  “Your sister’s name is Breezy?”

  “Briana.” Neve smirked. “But I couldn’t pronounce it when I was little and my version stuck. Anyway, she’s asking me to step in as the surprise special guest, but seeing as you’re here . . .”

  He got the hint. “You need a volunteer?”

  “Why, I declare! What a wonderful, generous offer.” Her exaggerated coo faded back to her usual brisk tone. “Here’s the deal. I love two things in this world: my job and my family. I’m telling you, Breezy performs bona fide miracles at that library. Letting down those rug rats would kill her. And besides . . .” She drummed her nails on the table’s veneer again with a smug look.

  “What?” He crossed his arms, as if the gesture could hide the jealous flame that flared every time he was presented with evidence of other people’s normal, happy family lives.

  “Nothing.” She wiped a hand over her mouth, erasing the mysterious smirk. “So . . . what’s it going to be? Will you heed the urgent call of a damsel in distress? Just remember that if the answer is no, then the topic of my next podcast is going to be about hockey captains who devastate local fans by refusing to support worthwhile community events.”

  He threw up his hands in mock annoyance. “I’d have said yes. No need to stoop to Tony Soprano threats.” For all her smart talk, he enjoyed Neve’s company. He didn’t have a sister, but if he did, he’d wish for one like her.

  “Nice to find out that your good-guy attitude isn’t an act.” The tension lines bracketing her mouth vanished as she gave him an honest grin. “You’d be surprised how often celebrity athletes suck donkey balls.” She shoved the phone back to her ear. “Breezy? Crisis averted. The cavalry’s coming.”

  “Your order is coming out in just a minute.” The waitress bustled to the table and leaned in close. A clump of mascara dangled off the edge of her lashes. “Want anything else in the meantime? More fresh squeezed orange juice . . . my phone number?”

  “Oy! That’s enough of that.” Neve stuffed her phone back down her shirt. “We need that breakfast sandwich and bagel to go.” She began packing her things in quick efficient movements as the waitress retreated. “Follow me over?”

  “I know the way.” His condo wasn’t far from the Rosedale library. “Speer Boulevard, hop off on Tenth?” He rose and grabbed his Gore-Tex jacket. “What’s the plan?”

  “You’ll say a few words, something short.” Neve shrugged as she stood and strode toward the front door, accepting the brown bags from the waitress and passing him one before paying the bill. “You know the drill. ‘School is cool’ and ‘Reading is for winners’ feel-good stuff. Wing it. Oh!” She raised a finger. “Breezy did mention that the speaker has to share their favorite picture book. You are literate, right?” She winked.

  “Remember how I played defense for Stanford?” He opened and held the door. “I also happened to major in Finance.” It took effort to keep the edge from his voice. Stereotypes were self-fulfilling prophecies and he had spent years working his ass off not to be another “dumb jock” cruising by on a subpar GPA. In truth, reading wasn’t his favorite, but at least numbers always made sense.

  “Finance, huh?” Neve missed his stiffness as she scooted past. “Every time I talk about banking I get withdrawal symptoms.” She snorted at her corny joke. “But in all seriousness, thanks for the Good Samaritan gesture. That was cool, and Breezy’s going to appreciate it more than you could imagine.” Again came that hint of a private smile gone as soon as it started. “Wow, get a load of this rain. We need a snorkel and fins to cross the parking lot.”

  “Tell me.” He tugged up his hood. “This sister with the funny name, is she anything like you?” God help Denver if there was another mouthy Chihuahua on the loose.

  “Breezy? Not in the least.” Neve opened her umbrella with a flourish. “But she’s my best friend. Let her down and I’ll drop-kick you faster than you can say Bobby Orr.”

  Chapter Two

  “Let’s try it again. From the top.” Breezy Angel sucked in, straining for the costume zipper, putting herself at risk of serious rib crackage. Who was she kidding; these loosey-goosey abs hadn’t seen a decent crunch in years. They could barely flex, let alone possess the strength to break bone. Sweat prickled the nape of her neck while stars skimmed the edge of her vision. “Oof. Come on, come on,” she huffed, grimacing.

  She reached and almost . . . almost . . . almost . . . her fingers grazed the zipper.

  Success.

  She gripped the millimeter of metal and tugged. Stubborn little sucker refused to budge. Frowning, she tried again.

  Same result.

  At fifteen years old, the library’s Super Reader costume had seen better days. But last summer it fit fine.

  “Ugh.” The bathroom scale had been an asshole since the Rory breakup. During last week’s move to her new—and first—home of her very own, she’d exiled the spiteful hunk of metal to the garage as punishment, but it hadn’t lied. Fifteen extra pounds padded her hips and butt, a result of an ongoing ménage a
trois with Ben and Jerry.

  Zzzzzzzerp! The zipper gave way.

  “Sweet Sugar Babies!” Her voice echoed off the women’s room tile as she clutched her pancaked breasts. Her nipples inverted and her naval squashed her spine, but hey, she’d stuffed herself inside—victorious, more or less.

  Now to survive the next hour without laughing, sitting or breathing.

  Not that she’d ever been a slender, willowy sort of gal. Her body tended to softness and a good cheese plate was better than size six jeans. She owned her juicy ass and had an allergy to any talk about how a “real” woman had a) curves b) no curves or c) hard-won muscles.

  Nope. Sorry. All a so-called real woman needed to own the title was a heartbeat.

  Boom. Done. End of story.

  But even still, she wanted to feel good in her skin . . . and right now, she didn’t. She hadn’t in too long.

  Picking up the Jed West coffee mug from the edge of the sink—a recent twenty-ninth birthday gift from her big sister—she drained the bitter dark roast before glancing at his photo printed on the side.

  Sigh.

  Westy was the carrots to her peas. The cheese to her macaroni. The gin to her tonic. The . . . the . . . corned beef to her cabbage.

  Those irises were a tug of war between June grass green and hickory bark brown. How many hours had she spent trying to bestow his perfect hazel eye color with the right poetic descriptors?

  Spoiler: a lot.

  No regrets, because that face was a gift to humanity; as if no matter what the nightly news indicated, the world couldn’t be going to hell in a handbasket if it had conspired to produce such a perfect male jaw. And those freckles. Yeah. Wow. Those freckles just weren’t fair.

  She checked her reflection with a half-hearted shrug, nothing much to cheer or sneer there. On a positive note, yay for a good hair day. The half beehive paired well with a low side ponytail. Straight sixties glam. She leaned closer, wiping a lipstick smudge from her lower lip. Her usual cat-eye makeup was on point too. The black liquid liner gave her wings, even as the low hum from the crowd in the community room threatened to send her heart into an Icarus death spiral.