by Skye Jordan
She didn’t wait for his answer before stepping into the next room—obviously the main locker room. The space was large and well-appointed, with lacquered blue benches lining the walls. Each cubby space had been assigned with a brass nameplate. The team’s logo—a stylized image of a horse’s head wearing an intense expression—was everywhere: painted on walls, cut into carpet, carved into wood. A lot of money had been dumped into this space.
She took a quick glance around at the half-dozen men standing in a semicircle around Croft. He’d dropped to a seat on a bench in the middle of the room and was holding his head in both hands. His hair was dark, drenched, and standing up in every direction. He’d stripped off his jersey, and shoulder pads lay on the bench beside him. His muscles stretched a red long-sleeved shirt around thick biceps and across cut deltoids.
Eden wasn’t a small woman. At five foot seven, she worked out and carried her own tight frame of muscle. But in this room, surrounded by these men, she was acutely aware of the power surrounding her—and not just the physical power. Croft himself wielded a significant influence over these men. Men who she guessed wielded their own authority in other circles.
This room reeked of power and money and testosterone.
Eden knew all about that bullshit—and it meant less than nothing to her.
She rounded the bench and stepped between two of the men to stand in front of Croft.
“Mr. Croft,” she said in a professional but compassionate tone. “I’m with Capital Ambulance. After that hit, we need to stabilize your spine as quickly as possible. You shouldn’t be moving until you’ve been assessed by a physician. My partner and I are going to take you to Georgetown University Hospital.”
“Fuck.” His bitter anger cut into Eden’s stomach. She stood her ground, hoping she hadn’t flinched externally. “Give me a fucking minute. I’m gonna be fine. Jesus Christ, you’re all making something out of nothing.”
Everyone had the right to refuse medical care, and as far as her responsibilities went, she could walk away at any time after a mentally sound patient said no. But there was a bigger, more ethical part of her job. The part that drove people to seek this work in the first place: the desire to take care of others who couldn’t take care of themselves in times of trauma or stress or illness. And she believed it was part of her ethical job to recognize those who truly needed a doctor’s wisdom and guide them into skilled hands.
Considering this man hadn’t even stayed still after taking such a bad hit to the head, she’d definitely put him in the poor judgment category.
“You have to go, Beckett.” The team doctor delivered the assertion with what Eden thought was an overabundance of consideration. They were dealing with a grown man, not an angry two-year-old. “It’s concussion protocol.”
“Fuck protocol,” Croft yelled, pushing to his feet. His sheer size—around six foot three and at least two hundred pounds—made Eden take a step back. Made her gut flutter with alarm. “I wasn’t out more…” His words drifted away. His gaze went distant. “I wasn’t… More than…”
“Gabe.” Eden alerted him to Croft’s imminent drop. Gabe moved behind Croft, while Eden stepped closer and held out a hand. “Mr. Croft, you need to—”
He swayed, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body went lax. All in the span of two seconds.
Eden got ahold of his forearms just as he pitched sideways and backward. She wasn’t able to do much more than guide him toward Gabe’s arms. The other men in the room jumped in, adding support to get Croft onto the floor and saving him from another crack to his skull—though Eden thought that might have helped knock some of Croft’s stupid loose. On the upside, this took the decision of whether or not to go to the emergency room out of Croft’s hands.
Eden took a quick pulse at Croft’s wrist while the team doctor hovered and the other men in the room twittered with concern. When she found Croft’s heartbeat steady and strong, she nodded at Gabe, who worked the C-collar into place around Croft’s neck.
“Doc,” someone called behind them. “Looks like Kristoff’s going to need stitches.”
The doctor turned that direction with a disbelieving “Again?”
“We’ve got this,” Eden told him. It wasn’t like he was helping anyway. “Go ahead.”
The doctor moved on to his next patient, and Eden started on the straps attached to the backboard.
She kept a watch on Croft’s face, anticipating trouble if he regained consciousness before they had him secured. He reminded her more of a boxer than a hockey player, with the ugly green-and-yellow resolving bruise shadowing one eye and an inch worth of fresh stitches across the same brow. A few days’ worth of beard darkened the lower half of his face, but the balance and strong, squared angles of his features made him undeniably attractive.
Eden tightened the strap over his hips as Croft’s lashes fluttered. She met Gabe’s eyes and lifted her chin toward the opposite side of the gurney. “Rail.”
Her partner lifted the metal arm while Eden untwisted the final strap for Croft’s chest.
He opened his eyes and looked around, dark eyes flooded with confusion. Urgency created tension along Eden’s shoulders. She wanted to get him tied down before—
“What the—” Croft jerked his legs against the straps, and fury cut across his face. A look that brought back nightmares and chilled the pit of Eden’s stomach.
“Everything’s fine, Mr. Croft,” she said, sounding surprisingly calm. “We’ll have you out of this in—”
“Now.” He pulled himself upright and twisted to grab for the strap at his thighs. “You’ll get me out of this right fucking now.”
In her mind’s eye, she saw the spinal column as she’d studied it so intricately. Saw a potentially chipped vertebra cutting into his spinal cord. Saw delicate nerve endings wedged and compressed as he twisted and fought. She was momentarily caught between the urge to swear at him and the desire to throw her hands up and let him ruin the rest of his life.
“Mr. Croft,” Gabe said in what Eden called his dad voice, “you need to lie down.”
But Croft obviously had no respect for any kind of authority. He pulled on the strap in Eden’s hand.
“Mr. Croft—” Gabe repeated.
The buckle pinched Eden’s fingers, pain sliced through her hand, and her fraying patience snapped.
Eden planted her knee on the gurney at Croft’s hip, steadied herself with one hand on the edge, and pulled herself up to his level. Slapping her free hand to the center of his chest, Eden pushed him straight back and against the pad. An oomph drifted out of him, and he stared up at her with a mix of shock and confusion.
“Whoa, sugar.” He held up his hands, his dark eyes making a quick sweep of her body. “I usually save the rough stuff for the second date, but since you’re so good at it, I’ll compromise this time.” He met her gaze again, and his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Bring it, baby.”
A smattering of relieved laughter rounded the room. Eden experienced relief and embarrassment, frustration, and, yeah, a twinge of excitement. Because, okay, he was pretty hot when he smiled. Even for a hockey player.
Gabe stepped to the opposite side of the gurney, and in Eden’s peripheral vision, she noted his nervous gaze darting between them. “Mr. Croft, she’s probably not the one you want to tangle with. I’m far more congenial.”
Both Eden and Croft tilted their gazes toward Gabe.
Eden lifted a brow at him. “Really?”
Her partner smirked back. “Just trying to defuse the tension.”
It worked. When she and Croft locked gazes again, he was grinning. And damn, the boy had a smile that could melt steel.
“Are you done fighting and arguing and generally being an ass?” she asked, far less forceful than she’d been a moment ago, but stern enough to let Croft know she wasn’t backing down. “Are you going to let us do our jobs?”
“I don’t usually let anyone get between me and the ice”—his voice was warm a
nd his gaze playful as he wrapped a hand around her wrist—“but I might make an exception for you.”
She didn’t get a chance to tell him how full of shit he was before he tried to pull her hand away and sit up. But Eden already had her weight balanced over him and used the miniscule advantage to keep him down.
“Look, we both know you could toss me across the room if you wanted. And I really have more important things to do than fight with you, Mr. Croft. I want you to hold still long enough to hear me out so you can make an informed decision.”
His mouth quirked again. “I’ve really got more important things to do than listen to your advice—”
“If you haven’t already completely fucked up your spine,” she said, forging ahead anyway, “continuing to move in the presence of an injury could do even more damage. So if you really love hockey and the rough stuff on the second date, you’ll hold still until we can get you to the hospital and make sure you didn’t do irreparable damage to your head, neck, or back. An injury like that could not only keep you from the things you love most, but it could keep you in a wheelchair for the rest of your life.”
When she finished, the deep stillness in the room registered. For the first time since she’d entered the locker room, her lungs filled completely, and a sense of control returned. Her head cleared, and Eden scanned Croft’s face as if seeing it for the first time. Dark brown hair, rich brown eyes, bruises, stitches, sweat. And, man, he was handsome in a rough, almost brutal sort of way.
She eased back, but his big hand remained wrapped loosely around her wrist.
“So, what’s it going to be?” she asked. “Back on the ice for five minutes tonight? Or back on the ice for five years starting tomorrow?”
He relaxed into the gurney but didn’t release her or break her gaze. The faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes told Eden he found her amusing.
But then he confused her by saying, “I want to talk to Donovan before I leave.”
“On it,” someone behind her said, followed by the shuffle of movement as one of the men left the locker room.
Eden lowered her feet to the ground but had to continue leaning over the gurney with her arm in his grip. His gaze seemed to relax too, now scanning her face with a kind of intimacy that made her self-conscious.
“You’re a smart man,” she told him.
“And you’re a pretty little firecracker.”
Pretty? Hardly. She went makeup-free on the job, her hair pulled back into a boring bun. All very efficient and utilitarian, but definitely not pretty. But the compliment still created a hot little buzz low in her body.
She glanced down at his big scarred hand still circling her wrist, surprised at how gentle he could be after seeing what he’d done on the ice. But she’d known that kind of man before. The kind who could stroke a cheek as expertly as he could hammer it. “Think I could have my hand back now?”
Instead of releasing it, he stroked his thumb across the sensitive skin of her wrist, and heat coursed up her arm. “About that date—”
“There was no mention of a date.” She picked up the one remaining strap with her free hand. “Will you let me snap this? Just until we get you into the ambulance?”
“If you’ll talk date with me.”
Strangely enough, she got more come-ons as an EMT than she ever had as a cocktail waitress. “I was asking as a courtesy. You heard the doctor. You have to go in.”
“You’re pretty tough for a girl…”—he glanced down, where her name badge rested at her breast—“Kennedy. That a first or last name?”
The way the man could create heat with nothing but the slide of his eyes was unnerving. More so when she’d spent years building barriers he seemed to blow through with no effort.
She fastened the final strap over his chest and smiled. “Planning on filing a complaint?”
“The only complaint I’ve got is that you’re not taking me seriously.”
She lifted the gurney’s metal arm. “After that hit? Everything you say is suspect.”
He grinned—a big, high-on-life grin that blasted heat straight through Eden. His straight, white teeth contrasted with his dark stubble, and his gregariousness beamed like a beacon, sizzling in the air. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how many times I’ve hit my head over the years.”
“Or maybe I’d say that explains a lot.”
“Good one.” His gaze lowered to her chest again. “Any relation to the Kennedys?”
“Pffft. Right. I’m really an heir to the Kennedy fortune. I do this on the side to create purpose in my life.”
Croft laughed. Eden met Gabe’s you-always-manage-to-win-them-over smirk with a shake of her head. He took the foot of the gurney as they maneuvered out of the locker room and into the cement tunnels toward the ambulance waiting in the bowels of the stadium.
Another player ran up alongside them, still in full uniform and gear, including helmet and skates. “You scared the hell out of us.” This had to be Donovan. He looked a few years younger than Croft and walked along with them through the corridor. “You okay?”
“Fine. Fucking concussion protocol. Listen…” Croft barely took a breath, and his gaze held Donovan’s with surprising intensity considering how lightly he’d been flirting with her only minutes ago. “Don’t let this sidetrack the guys. Get them to channel the emotion into the game and hold the momentum.”
“Got it.”
“With me out, the Ducks will bring in Souza,” Croft said.
“Leftie.”
“Cut everything off,” Croft instructed. “Don’t give them one fucking inch…”
He continued to coach Donovan until they reached the ambulance and loaded him inside. Even then he called, “Lead with your sticks, rebound, and keep them out of our zone.”
Gabe moved around to the driver’s door, and Eden took hold of the back door. Before she closed it, she glanced between the men. “Anything else?”
“Focus on the game, Tate. You got this. You guys got this.”
The other man nodded, glanced at Eden, and grinned, then told Croft, “Stop giving Kennedy such a hard time. Behave for a change.”
She offered Donovan a nod before she shut the door, then smiled down at Croft. “I like him.”
2
Beckett’s head throbbed like a mother. The next time he saw Decker on the ice, that man was going to curse the day he was born.
His pain didn’t help tamp down his annoyance with this little hottie twittering over Donovan. She was supposed to be swooning over Beckett, dammit. Only, Kennedy obviously hadn’t gotten that memo.
“I’m going to put an ice pack on your head.” Kennedy’s voice had softened since Beckett had stopped bullying her.
She laid a cold compress over the crown of his head toward the back where he hurt most, and the cold spread over his angry skull like soothing fingers. Beckett sighed with relief.
“How long until we get to the hospital?” he asked.
“Gabe?” she called toward the front.
“Maybe fifteen minutes,” the driver replied. “Depends on traffic.”
“I don’t mind a longer, quieter ride, if you know what I mean,” Beckett called back. “I think the siren might split my head open.”
“Roger that.”
He glanced at Kennedy again. “My phone’s in the locker room. Do you have one that I can use to pull up the game?”
She slipped the blood pressure cuff around his arm with a silly little fat-chance grin.
“Hey, Gabe,” he tried. “Can you get the game on the radio?”
A laugh bubbled out of Kennedy. A sweet, light bubble of laughter that felt like a stream of carbonation through his gut. One that helped him focus on something other than the pain in his head.
“Sorry, boss,” Gabe said. “The only radio we’ve got connects directly to the hospital.”
“That sucks.” As did the occasional stab deep in his brain when he raised his voice. But it wasn’t anything he hadn’t dealt
with before. Or wouldn’t deal with again.
“Tell me,” Gabe agreed.
After monitoring his pulse and blood pressure, Kennedy stood and bent over him. “I’m going to check for anything abnormal along your spine.”
She gripped the opposite rail with one gloved hand and slipped the other between his body and the backboard. Her gaze went distant, and her fingers gingerly followed the length of his spine from the edge of the collar to his hips. Then she stretched across him and repeated the action on the opposite side.
Teasing her helped keep his mind off his head. Off the fact that he was missing the game. Off the realization that everything was out of his control. “I think you missed a spot.”
Her gaze lifted and focused on his eyes. She was only three or four inches away and the instant intimacy shot a current through his chest that zapped his gut. He grinned, and an answering smile whispered over her mouth before she rolled her eyes.
She’d taken off her jacket, but her uniform shirt did an excellent job of cloaking any femininity hiding underneath. This close, Beckett caught the very subtle scent of something fruity and light. His synapses had obviously gotten scrambled in that mix-up on the ice, because he was catching some wickedly hot vibes from this woman. And there was definitely nothing outwardly sexual about her.
Except maybe her sassy, take-charge attitude. That was pretty damn sexy. Plus, that face… There was no missing all that delicate bone structure and quiet symmetry. Her hair was the color of straw and wound in a tight bun on the back of her head. Her cheekbones were high but soft. Her lips a pale blush and full. She definitely wasn’t the smokin’ hot, overtly feminine woman Beckett usually gravitated toward. He’d definitely changed over the last year—in dozens of different ways—but he was still a four-inch-fuck-me-heels kind of guy. A tight dress, makeup, and perfume kind of guy.
And Kennedy certainly wasn’t that. In fact, Beckett couldn’t even imagine her dolled up. Yet, he couldn’t stop looking at her. He’d just gone too long between hookups. This year had been brutal on his extracurricular activity.
