by Candis Terry
Dedication
This one is for the teachers
who encouraged me in my early years.
For the teachers who go above and beyond
with knowledge, patience, and compassion.
And for Claudeen Bergeron,
one of the nicest and best.
May your lessons and voices be heard
and appreciated for generations.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
An Excerpt from Perfect for You
About the Author
By Candis Terry
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
The pungent scent of sweat-soaked bodies and the ice beneath Jordan Kincade’s skates filled his nostrils. He devoured the energy, the thrill of the game, and the barely controlled chaos like a perfectly grilled steak. Queen’s “We Will Rock You” and anticipation vibrated through the jam-packed arena as he skated to face-off with his opponent on a power play. The Carolina Vipers might be down by a goal, but he knew the high-decibel, foot-stomping boost from the home crowd would pull them through.
It always did.
After an earlier vicious cross-check delivered by Dimitri Pavel, Jordan—much to the crowd’s delight—racked up five for fighting. Now it was time to cut the shit and focus. He couldn’t allow Pavel’s toothless sneer to tempt him into chalking up any more penalty points. There was just too damn much at stake.
“Gonna vipe smile off dat pretty face, kinky man.”
Pavel spat when he spoke, a habit that tempted his opponents to dodge the spray and miss the drop. Jordan, who had mercifully retained all his own teeth, imagined it was hard to speak properly when you had the gums of an infant. Still, Pavel could have strings of snot hanging from his nose and Jordan wouldn’t care. He didn’t dodge anything if it meant he’d lose the face-off.
“Your saggy jock calls bullshit,” Jordan shot back. Yeah, okay, the bait had been too strong to resist the smack talk. So sue him.
Like a wolf focused on its prey, Jordan’s attention sharpened as the ref lifted his hand and dropped the puck in front of Jordan’s skates. Jordan wasted no time in pushing the biscuit across the ice into Tyler Seabrook’s stick. The center took control. Dodging sticks, skates, and elbows, he managed to set up a shot in the sweet zone. Jordan snagged the pass and slapped it through the five-hole before the goalie could get his glove on it.
Red lights flashed behind the net and the horn blew, signaling the goal. The crowd leaped to their feet in an ear-splitting roar as the players came together for congratulatory slaps on the back. Nothing felt better than a team celebration after an important goal. The one he’d just scored had been vital and hopefully took the burn off the penalties he’d drawn earlier. With the score now tied, the Vipers would have to quickly score once more or win it in overtime. The chances of either were iffy.
The shift change gave Jordan a chance to catch his breath and rest his legs. During a regular season game he didn’t usually tense up. But the closer they got to making the playoffs, the more he tended to tighten every muscle to the extreme. By the time he made it home tonight he’d feel like he’d been hit by a bullet train. Once his team claimed victory and made it into the locker room, he’d need to have his favorite masseuse make a house call. Lucky for him his favorite masseuse came with a pretty smile, long blond hair, a taste for fine whiskey, and preferred to work in the nude.
A smile curled his mouth as he watched Beau Boucher press his opponent into the corner boards with a glass-quaking thud. The hulking defenseman used his weight and muscle to steal the puck and slide it across the ice to power forward Scott O’Reilly. O’Reilly sank it into the net so fast the goalie barely saw it flash by.
With only two seconds remaining on the play clock, the Vipers bench emptied and the entire team roared onto the ice to celebrate the win. Unless a miracle materialized for the other team in the next blink of an eye, the Vipers were one step closer to the Stanley Cup.
Hallefreakinglujah.
After a loss a locker room could be as silent as a crypt. Tonight, the noise level and celebration escalated to ear-splitting.
Jordan did his best not to grin like a raging fool during his post-game recap with the reporter from the Observer. Exhilaration tingled through his chest. He loved this damn game, his team, and right now he even loved Coach Bill Reiner, who openly admitted that he was an unlovable SOB. Didn’t matter. Hope remained alive. Every man on skates in this room could imagine the coveted silver Holy Grail of hockey pressed to their lips.
Interview complete, Jordan had time to celebrate with the guys before everyone dropped their jocks and headed for the showers. Plans were already being made to take the party to the team’s favorite sports bar. Turk’s Ice House provided cold beer, perfectly cooked finger steaks, sharp darts, and plenty of pretty ladies who didn’t mind if the newest rookie sported a purple Mohawk or wore his jock strap on the outside of his jeans. Hazing could be hell, and Turk’s was always more than happy to add a little extra torture to the newbies.
Tonight it didn’t matter if you were the captain, a veteran, or the newest kid on the ice. Tonight they were a team and tonight they’d celebrate as one. Come tomorrow they’d all be back to kicking ass in practice and preparing for the biggest games of the season.
Near the lockers, Boucher tangled rookie Colton Dahl up in a headlock, and Jordan laughed. Damn, he was happy. Just out-of-his-mind fucking happier than he’d been in a long time. Things had been going great for a while now. If he were a superstitious man, he’d be worried that his string of good luck was about to break. But he wasn’t even the type to grow a good-luck beard during the playoffs like the other guys. He didn’t hesitate to walk under ladders, and he didn’t flinch when a black cat crossed his path. The vibe he had going was pretty sweet, and he planned to do everything in his power to keep it on fast track.
Grabbing the back of his jersey with one hand, he pulled the number eighteen shirt over his head. A flash of purple and black briefly covered his eyes before he tossed the stinking material into the hamper and hung his pads in the locker. Before he could sit down to remove his skates, his cell phone rang.
He debated answering it.
Somehow the bleached blond princess he’d tangled legs with last week had gotten his number. Not that he didn’t appreciate her willingness to go above and beyond between the sheets, but Jordan didn’t have a want or a need to tie himself down to any woman. Especially one who had dollar signs in her eyes and envisioned his ring on her finger. Still, there were others who could be calling. And with five siblings it could be any one of them.
Grabbing the black case, he glanced down at the caller ID.
Ryan.
His big brother rarely picked up the phone. Usually the man was too busy helping their parents run the family vineyards back in Washington State and being a single dad to his nine-year-old daughter. Then again, maybe Ryan had seen the game on TV tonight and was calling to offer his congratulations.
Jordan poked the ANSWER button. “Hey, big brother. Did you see the game?”
“I caught the first period.”
“Only the first? What’s the ma
tter?” Jordan laughed. “You couldn’t stand seeing me waste another five locked up for rearranging Pavel’s big nose?”
“Jordy.” Ryan’s tone twisted through the pit of Jordan’s gut. “I’m sorry. I didn’t call about your game. I’ve got some bad news.”
The knot tightened. “How bad?”
Ryan’s silence on the other end of the phone sent a chill up Jordan’s back. Behind him the locker room celebration continued to blast at full volume. “Hang on a second. Let me go out into the hall. I can barely hear you.”
Jordan shoved open the swinging doors and stepped into the much quieter passageway between the locker room and the coach’s office. “What’s going on?” With five siblings it could be anything. In the past, it often had been. There had been Ethan’s close call with a wildfire, the burns Parker received when a skillet of grease blew up, Declan’s near fatal crash on a California freeway, and Ryan’s bone-breaking fall from the roof of the winery. Nicole, their baby sister, seemed to be the only one in the family who didn’t break body parts on a regular basis.
Ryan cleared his throat. “There’s been an accident.”
“What kind of accident? Is Riley okay?” Jordan asked, immediately feeling the familiar guilt that he didn’t get to see his niece often enough.
“She’s fine. It’s . . . Mom and Dad.”
His heart skipped a beat. “Are they okay?”
“They hired one of those tour helicopters to fly them over Molokai.” Ryan’s voice hitched. “It crashed.”
“What?” Disbelief sent Jordan’s fingers jamming through his hair. Their parents had gone to Hawaii a few days ago to celebrate their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. They’d been looking forward to warm sunshine and tropical drinks. “Did they . . .”
“They’re gone, Jordy. There were no survivors.”
Jordan’s throat closed like an iron fist had wrapped around his windpipe. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. For a second he had to bend over and brace his hands on his knees to keep them from buckling. To keep his stomach from rolling like he was fighting titanic ocean waves. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to either his mom or his dad at length. And now . . .
In a distant echo he heard his brother calling his name.
Agony pounded the breath from his lungs as he returned the phone to his ear. “I’ll be on the next flight home,” he told Ryan.
“Let me get things figured out here a little more. Someone needs to go to Hawaii to claim the bodies and arrange to have them flown home,” Ryan said in an unbelievably calm tone.
Ryan had always been the strong one, the one with a spine of steel in most any situation. Didn’t matter if Jordan was known to be a tough son of a bitch on the ice, Ryan was the one who managed to stay composed in the most stressful situations. Hell, even when his wife had left him high and dry with a little girl to take care of, Ryan’s steadiness never cracked. Jordan admired the hell out of him.
“I’ll be on the next flight home,” Jordan repeated.
“What about your game schedule?”
“Fuck the game schedule. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Hands shaking, Jordan disconnected the call and swallowed the nausea pooled in his throat. No doubt his brothers could take care of everything so he could focus on winning the Cup. But that silver trophy wouldn’t mean shit if he abandoned them right now. He’d put his family in second place too many times in the past.
He didn’t know if they really needed him, but he sure as hell needed them.
Beyond the swinging metal doors to the locker room the celebration commotion continued. But for Jordan, life as he knew it had vanished.
Chapter 2
Whoever said you can’t go home again hit the nail dead nuts. In a house that had never quite felt like home, Jordan sat on the leather sofa in his parents’ living room surrounded by those who shared his last name. The siblings he’d once lived and laughed with now seemed like distant relatives amid the suffocating grief and grave silence.
Their parents had been the glue that held the foundation of their family together, even if their footing had gotten a little shaky over the years. They’d been a loving, united front and always managed to put a shine on something that might seem a little tarnished. Knowing those who’d given him life would never be around again to share a moment or ask advice was unfathomable and created an ache so deep Jordan could barely breathe.
Tears burned his eyes as he lifted his gaze away from his clenched fists. Across the room, Declan, his fraternal twin—a multimillionaire workaholic—sat in a tufted leather chair poking away at his smartphone. As though Jordan had called his name, Dec looked up. Their eyes met briefly before Dec’s brows pulled together and he returned his focus to the phone in his hand.
A hard knock rattled Jordan’s rib cage.
Fraternal twins or not, they used to be as close as two brothers could ever be. Not that they possessed that weird twin thing where one instinctively sensed the other’s emotions from miles away. But they’d been connected. Even back in the day when, late at night, they’d whisper their dreams and plan their lives, their differences became starkly apparent.
Declan had been the more cerebral, whereas Jordan had been the more physical. Not that Dec couldn’t hold his own in a punching match. He could. And Jordan had often sported the black eye to prove it. Dec had always been a planner and he’d been determined to become successful at whatever he chose to do. He’d never been afraid to work hard for it either. Jordan admired his brother’s success in the financial world. He gave great monetary advice and had always made Jordan a profitable return on his investments. But that personal link—that brotherly connection they’d shared—had long ago disappeared.
Jordan had only ever had one dream—playing hockey and winning the Stanley Cup. As a kid he’d had no idea of the sacrifices his parents would make for him to achieve that dream. He’d been too busy haunting the Philadelphia ice rinks where they’d lived and talking up the players to find out everything he could about the game. As soon as he’d learned to lace up his own skates, hockey became his life. That single-minded focus had pulled him further and further away from the brother with whom he’d shared the womb.
Slumped beside him on the sofa, with his dark hair in need of a decent cut and wearing a beard that hadn’t seen a razor in months, sat Ethan, youngest of the five brothers. As a wildland firefighter, Ethan probably didn’t need to look GQ on the job, but Jordan couldn’t help teasing him anyway. That’s what baby brothers were for.
“Forget where you put your razor?”
Ethan flashed a smile that never reached his eyes. “Don’t own one.”
“No shit? Aren’t they afraid your face will catch fire when you’re out battling those blazes?”
“Guess they’re more worried about the destruction to the forests.” Ethan shrugged. “Go figure.”
Point taken.
So much for humor.
Ethan had a serious job that took him away from home for most of the year. Still, he exerted a hell of a lot more effort in staying in touch than Jordan.
Parker, fourth born in the crazy mix of testosterone that had rattled around under their roof, came into the room with a plate of snacks. Like Jordan himself, Parker had been a bit on the wild side. In his teens he’d been more trouble than their parents had been able to handle. Still, the folks hadn’t given up on him. They knew he possessed the intelligence to accomplish whatever he wanted in life. But for many years he chose to throw it all away. He’d eventually been given a parental ultimatum—a challenge that had turned him into a successful and talented chef who owned one of the most prosperous food truck businesses in the Portland, Oregon, area.
While his younger brother held the plate in front of him, Jordan’s mouth watered. The growl in his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.
“I won Chopped because I’m good and I’m fast,” Parker boasted.
“Yeah, and your last girlfriend complained about that whole fast thing.” Jordan couldn’t resist giving his brother some shit. Truth was he was damn proud of what Parker had accomplished without asking for help from anyone.
“Fuck you.” Parker’s response came with a grin.
“Boys. Language.”
Jordan looked across the room where their aunt Pippy gave them both the stink-eye. Quite an impressive feat when the woman wore more black eyeliner than Lady Gaga.
For whatever reason, their aunt had never quite moved on from the 1960s. She wore gobs of makeup, psychedelic colors, and gigantic earrings that could knock you out if they swung too hard in your direction. Her neon orange hair had been dyed within an inch of its life and teased into a style Jordan had only seen on nostalgic TV shows like Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In. She was the complete opposite of their conservative, serious-minded mother—Pippy’s younger sister—but no one could argue that she was entertaining as hell.
Next to Pippy sat the only female brave enough to be born late into an all-boy family.
Nicole was an ethereal beauty loaded down with a typical rebellious seventeen-year-old girl attitude. For what it was worth, Nicki scared the shit out of him. Jordan wasn’t used to her outbursts and temper tantrums. Hell, he wasn’t used to her at all. He’d been sixteen years old when she’d been born and he’d barely been around in those days. For the most part he’d bounced back and forth from the East Coast to the West Coast playing hockey and living part-time with his uncle in Philly. Getting to know his infant sister hadn’t been high on his to-do list.
