by Kate Meader
Every player had their rituals before a game. Petrov put two extra knots in his laces. Burnett put his socks on before his shorts, and his shorts on before his jersey. And Bren listened to violent, crush-your-soul death metal. You didn’t mess with a man’s pregame ritual, and you certainly didn’t mess with it to ask how the interviews for his kids’ nanny were going.
But of course, that’s not what the Cajun was asking at all. He had this twinkle in his eye that spoke to mischief on the horizon.
“Found one,” Bren said, praying that would shut him up.
“The hot Swedish chick?” Remy was curiously well informed.
Erik Jorgenson, obviously no stranger to the charms of his countrywomen, perked up. “You’re hiring a Swedish nanny?”
“Thinking about it. She comes with good references.” Or he assumed she did. A day later, and he hadn’t quite gotten around to calling. He told himself it was because he was focused on game five, though really it was because that kiss with Violet was taking up all his brain power. Right-hand power as well.
He’d known it would be spectacular. No, that was overstating it. He’d known it would be good. A good kiss. Put it down to the months of circling each other. All that pent-up tension between them, along with the pent-up tension in his balls, meant that Bren could have kissed Gretzky and pronounced it out of this world. He was in dire need of getting laid.
Yet she’d been so wet. For him.
As for her taste . . . Jesus, her sweet tang was better than whiskey. Maybe that kiss and the memory of how she’d tasted would tide him over. He could use it to jump-start his fantasy life. Yeah, because you haven’t been using your wicked fantasies about that smart-mouthed girl already. She took a starring role, all right. He just hadn’t reckoned on the reality outshining the fantasy.
“Yeah, Violet said she was a winner,” Remy commented with a half grin. Fucker.
Petrov raised an imperious Russian eyebrow. “Violet has met her?”
“Sat in on the interviews, I heard.” Remy again, as if Bren wasn’t even here.
“Violet’s helping you find a nanny?” Erik looked confused. “Perhaps you should just hire her.”
Remy smirked. “Yeah, Saint, perhaps ya should.”
Of all his teammates, Remy was the most attuned to the undercurrents between Bren and Violet, and he never stopped giving Bren shit about it.
Erik leaned in. “You do not approve of Violet, I think, Captain. She lives her life out loud and this bothers you.”
Bren hadn’t realized his weird vibe with Violet had affected anyone else on the team. “No, she can live her life any way she pleases. I’d like to hire someone who’s qualified to watch children.”
The Swede wasn’t listening. “Ever since Cade announced he likes men, she has been sad. Heartbroken.” He sounded much too hopeful.
Cade shouted from the other side of the locker room, “For the last time, Swede, she knew I was gay before any of you kickers and she is in no way heartbroken. Just go on that date with her already. Hell, she already paid for it.”
Bren swung back to Erik. “You haven’t gone on this date?”
“Not yet. She has been very busy.”
So Violet wasn’t on a date with Erik last night. Who else on the Rebels roster did he need to cut down in their prime?
“You want to date her? For real?”
“Why not? She is a beautiful woman and she likes to laugh. We would have a good time together, she and I. Very compatible.”
Well, that was just fan-fucking-tastic. Seeing Cade and Violet together—and Bren was right pissed at himself for being so relieved to hear they were only fake dating—had driven Bren wild these past few months. Not that he could, or would, do a single thing about it, because Violet was all wrong for him.
He could still feel the imprint of her kiss on his lips, her taste better than wine, her body like liquid fire in his arms. It was bad enough he’d spent months using her as fantasy fodder when he thought she was with one of his teammates; knowing how she tasted, felt, and sounded up close and personal was a particular cruelty.
I think if you were in this house, I might not make it to twelve.
For alcoholics, one drink was too many and a thousand were never enough. He suspected it would be the same with drinking down Violet, an addiction he couldn’t risk.
“Hey, boys, are we ready to play?”
Bren’s eyes snapped to the new arrival—the woman they had just been gossiping about. Those same eyes almost popped out of his head. Sweet Jesus. Violet stood at the door wearing a cheerleader outfit in Rebels blue and white. A deep-plunging shirt with a large R molded to her perfect breasts above a pleated skirt that barely skimmed her pert ass. In her hands? Pom-poms!
Occasionally Violet popped into the locker room before and after the games. “Morale building” she called it. Bren preferred to label it what it was: a complete and utter cock tease. But she’d never looked so blatantly provocative.
“Gimme an R!” With each letter of the cheer, she bestowed her favor on one lucky player. A kiss on Cade’s cheek, a squeeze of Remy’s bicep, fanning herself with a pom-pom in front of Petrov, which made the Russian laugh. Then she stood in the center and placed her fists on those shapely hips.
“Well, boys, we’re in with a shot here,” she said gruffly, a pretty spot-on impression of Coach Calhoun. “Home ice. The people of this city are behind us with our lovable loser status and shit.”
Everyone laughed, charmed by the impression and the sentiment. The city couldn’t be more excited and Violet’s spirit was infectious. Coach wasn’t so great at the motivational speeches, but at this point, they didn’t need it. Each man on the team had his own reasons for playing lights-out hockey.
“When can I get that date, Violet?” Erik asked with a cheeky grin.
She stroked his chin and fluttered her eyelashes. “Soon, my hot Swedish lover. Soon.”
Erik looked like every single one of his Christmases and birthdays had come at once. Prick.
Violet caught Bren’s eye, the first time she’d looked his way since she’d come in.
“So sad, Scot. Need a special cheer?”
He stood, his body itching for battle. For her. Did she think he’d forgotten how she tasted, how her supple skin felt beneath his fingertips? Did she think he’d forgotten a single fucking thing about that kiss?
The locker room buzz was loud enough that no one would hear what he said to her. “You’re playing with fire, lass.”
“Just doing my part for the team.” She fluffed a pom-pom under his chin. “Make me proud, handsome.”
Before Bren could comment, Coach Calhoun walked in.
“Okay, boys, we’re in with a shot here . . .” The rest was drowned out by the sound of everyone cracking up. With a final wave and salutation of good luck, Violet swayed that fine ass out of the locker room with every unattached guy’s gaze still affixed to it.
They lined up to head into the tunnel. A few reporters milled about, but they were experienced enough not to mess with the pregame routine.
“Hey,” Bren said, low enough so only Remy could hear. “Congratulations, Dad-to-be.”
Remy smiled over his shoulder. “No secrets in this family, I see.”
“Nope. I’m thrilled for you, brother.”
Remy nodded, his emotion appearing to get the better of him for a second before he said, “So. Hot Swedish chick?”
“Fuck off,” Bren muttered. He needed to purge from his brain all thoughts of Violet. In AA, you followed something called the twenty-four-hour plan. No pledges to never drink again, just an effort to get through it a day at a time. That’s how he approached his drinking, and that’s how he would approach Violet.
The Rebels had a game to win, and tonight, his kids were in the owners’ box with Harper. He would make them proud. Then tomorrow, he would call the references of his future nanny.
EIGHT
Harper jumped up from a chair in the emergency room wai
ting area the minute she saw Bren pounding through the door. They’d been up 3–2 after a couple of hard-fought periods when Coach approached him in the locker room and asked him to step outside.
Never a good sign, though typically Coach wouldn’t give him a heads-up that his play was piss-poor enough to bench him for the third. He just wouldn’t send him in and no one would question it because he was the fucking coach. Dante had been waiting outside the locker room, and that’s when Bren knew.
Something had happened to one of his girls.
Apparently, Franky had eaten something from the owners’ box buffet that had given her an allergic reaction, but she’d received an EpiPen dose and was reportedly okay. He wouldn’t believe it until he held her tight enough to feel her little heart beating against his chest.
“Bren, I’m so sorry,” Harper said. “I should have monitored all the food in the box. It didn’t even occur to me that the brownies might be a problem, and then I stepped out for a second—”
“It’s okay, Harper.”
Caitriona sat in a corner chair, nose to her iPad, Beats on. She hadn’t even acknowledged him. “Love, what happened?”
She still didn’t respond, so he hunkered down in front of her. She removed her headphones.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“How come your sister’s eating stuff she shouldn’t?” He couldn’t be there 24/7. Sure, Caitriona was only a kid, but she was older and had to look out for her little sister.
His daughter shrugged. “I can’t watch her all the time. She’s supposed to ask an adult if she can eat something before she puts it in her mouth.”
That was true. Franky knew better. Parenting was hard, and there was no good reason why he should expect his oldest daughter to step into that role.
He straightened. “Where’s Franky now?” he asked Harper, who was still pale and shaky. He couldn’t blame her. Watching someone else’s kids took work, and with Harper suffering in the first trimester of her pregnancy, her mind couldn’t be on his problems 100 percent.
“She’s in an exam room down that hallway.”
Alone? She must be terrified. Why wasn’t Harper with her?
No. Step back. This isn’t Harper’s responsibility. These kids are your responsibility.
With a nod at Harper and one last look at Caitriona—who was back to ignoring him—he headed off to see his daughter. He rounded the corner, his heart expanding in relief at hearing Franky’s laugh. Thank God. Then his chest tightened at the sound of another voice—a husky, calm, straight-to-his-balls one.
“So, which one is your favorite?”
“Rathouisiidae,” Franky said cheerfully, sounding none the worse for wear after her ordeal. “They’re carnivorous and they eat other slugs, but you only find them in Southeast Asia.”
Holy Rathouisiidae. Violet Vasquez was discussing slugs with his daughter.
“Why do you like them so much?”
“They’re survivors,” his daughter said, so simply it broke his heart. “People think they’re ugly pests. Nature gave them a way to make it.”
“Especially when they’re biting the you-know-whats off boy slugs.”
His daughter giggled. “I’m never getting married.”
He wasn’t sure how that was relevant, but Violet didn’t question it. She merely responded with, “Neither am I, kiddo.”
His phone chimed with a message from Remy: Franky okay?
He texted back: Just fine.
Remy: Good. By the way, we won, asshole. No thanks to you.
Bren smiled, then rubbed his beard because he wasn’t sure he had a right to this sliver of joy. Putting on his game face, he walked into the room. Violet was sitting on the bed, still in her cheerleader outfit, one long wave of perfect inked thigh filling his eyeballs. Franky was leaning in to examine one of the tattoos on her arm.
“Hi, sprite. Heard you’ve been making trouble.”
“Dad!” She bit her lip and her eyes went wide, welling with the beginnings of tears. “I’m sorry. They looked like the brownies Margarita makes back home. I know I should have asked.”
He hugged her hard, replenishing his life force with hers. “Yeah, you should have. But I’m glad you’re okay.”
Violet watched him, and Bren felt like he was being weighed and found wanting.
“Violet said she’s done the Epi a million times before. She knew exactly what to do.”
What? Bren snapped his full attention to that green-eyed gaze. She could have been her usual smartass self, but she played it straight.
“A million times before, huh?” was all he could say. The woman he’d said wasn’t fit to be around his kids had just saved his youngest daughter’s life.
“Yeah, my mom’s allergic to peanuts as well,” Violet said, as if it were nothing. “Never grew out of it, so it was something I was trained on early. Any chance I have to stab a needle into a thigh, I’m all over that.”
She smiled at him, a dazzler that knocked him over. “I’d best be off. Harper’s freaking out, which means my night playing nurse is only beginning. But first, I have a question for you, Franks.”
His daughter sat up straighter. “Okay.”
“What did the baby corn say to the mama corn?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s popcorn?”
Pretty lame, but Bren would suffer through a million terrible jokes just to witness the smile Violet put on his daughter’s face.
Franky grabbed her hand. “I could show you those other slugs tomorrow. They’re not as fascinating as the Rathouisiidae, but they’re still interesting. I have them in a terrarium at home.”
Kendra had never been encouraging of Franky’s interest in wildlife and science, preferring to direct her energies to dolls and clothes, pursuits that Franky didn’t care for. Though his daughters never said it, he suspected Kendra’s ambivalence to motherhood shone through, and this is why they’d wanted to live with him. His kids needed accepting adults in their lives, and he waited with bated breath for Violet’s response.
Violet squeezed Franky’s hand back. “Wow, you sure know how to sell it, kiddo. Let me see. I’ve got improv class in the afternoon, but maybe we can figure something out.” She was clearly trying to take the middle ground here—not hurt his kid’s feelings and still keep with Bren’s ill-conceived wishes that she not spend time with them.
He was such a jerk. He’d made this big to-do out of Violet and his kids because he wasn’t strong enough to be around this beautiful steak of temptation.
“See ya, Franky,” Violet said, pulling her hand away gently. “And remember: always ask before you chow.” She nodded at Bren as she headed out.
Bren leaned in and kissed Franky on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a sec, sprite.”
He caught up with Violet a few feet away outside the room. “Vi.” Vi?
She turned, obviously surprised. “Oh. Hi.”
“Thanks for doing that. For having the presence of mind.”
“No problem. I mean, it was pretty fucking scary, but I knew Harper had one with her and luckily she’d left her Kate Spade in the box when she stepped out.”
“Kate Spade?”
“Purse, heathen.”
He rubbed his beard to hide his budding smile.
“Don’t be too hard on Caitriona,” she said softly.
“Why do you say that?”
“I know she’s older, so I’m guessing you expect her to look out for Franky. But she’s just a kid herself, and she’s kind of self-absorbed right now for self-preservation reasons. I remember what that was like when—well, I remember. These past couple of weeks have been trying for you all.”
Worst father ever right here. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. For years, he hadn’t needed to because he was: (a) married and (b) reliant on alcohol to make him more palatable to those closest to him.
Violet didn’t seem to care. She could have stepped into the silence, but she jus
t stood there, waiting for him to get his personality together.
“Franky really likes you,” he said.
“Well, she has excellent taste.” Wink and grin. “She’s pretty special herself. She’s going to either rule the world or destroy it. Maybe both.”
“Yeah, sometimes I think she’s hovering on the edge of the dark side.” Talking about his kids was easy. For the past eleven years, his marriage had survived on conversations about the girls, which was perfect for the man who lived inside his head and made rare visits to the world of normal adults. He’d made a terrible husband, and not just because he was a drunk. Now, if he ever got around to dating, what the hell would he talk about?
Violet was surprisingly easy to talk to when he wasn’t trying to ram his tongue down her throat. He wished he’d tried this sooner instead of scowling at her for the past eight and a half months.
“When’s the hot Swede starting?”
“I haven’t called her yet.”
“Oh?”
He shook his head, unable to verbalize it. Ms. Ikea would have done a fine job saving Franky tonight—of that Bren had no doubt. But she wasn’t the one on the spot. This woman was.
“Could you come over tomorrow like Franky asked, for the slug show? After your improv class, if that’s a real thing?”
“Oh, it’s a real thing. I’m also learning flamenco. Building my résumé.”
He had no idea whether to believe her. But he wanted to believe in something.
“Her mom wasn’t the most encouraging of her interests.” He refused to feel bad about guilting Violet into a visit, not if it pleased his daughter. “If you have time, Franky would appreciate you stopping by.”
“Only Franky?”
“Not sure Caitriona appreciates anything right now.”
She smirked, a smartass look of I’ve got your number. She’d meant: Would one Bren St. James appreciate a visit from one Violet Vasquez?
“I’ll see what I can do, Nessie.”
She sashayed off down the corridor back to the waiting room, leaving him bewildered and questioning everything he thought he knew about women.
