[York Bombers 01.0] Playing the Game

by Lisa B. Kamps

  "Please don't do this, Harland. You don't know what Noah's been through. All the tests, the needles, the exams. He's just now gotten to the point where I can get him into the doctor's without him throwing a fit." The words caught and hitched in her throat. Harland felt a corresponding hitch in his own chest.

  Courtney's hand tightened around his wrist, her eyes softening—almost begging—as she leaned even closer. He caught the faintest whiff of her perfume, something too light to define. Tell-tale moisture appeared in her eyes and she blinked it away. Her lips parted and for one second of pure insanity, he thought about what it would be like to kiss her again. Would her lips be as soft and welcoming as before? Would his body heat and clench with desire from just one kiss?

  And fuck, he really was a bastard. His body was already reacting to her nearness, his cock growing hard at just the memory of her body against his. He pulled his gaze away from hers, forced himself to focus on her words.

  On the pleading desperation of her voice.

  "Please Harland. I'm begging you. Don't make me put him through this. I'll do anything."

  "Anything?" The question was out before he knew he was going to say it. Her eyes widened and he saw a flash of something in her eyes. Anger? Hurt? Certain knowledge that he was, indeed, a bastard of the worst kind? Because he knew exactly what she was thinking, knew exactly what she expected him to say, to ask for.

  She pulled back but didn't release the hold she had on his wrist. Coldness replaced the anger in her eyes but she didn't look away. "Yes. Anything."

  He wanted to take her up on it. To test her resolve and see if she really meant it. The temptation was strong, almost overwhelming. One kiss. One touch. One hour with her body.

  No, more than one hour. A night. One night.

  And even that wouldn't be enough.

  The realization blindsided him, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. He still wanted her. After everything that happened between them, after the pain and betrayal of the past—and the pain to come in the future—he still wanted her.

  Needed her.

  Could he do it? Could he take her up on the unspoken answer? Yeah, he could. He wanted to do. But he wouldn't. If he did, he'd only prove himself to be what she thought he was. And suddenly, that wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.

  More than he wanted her, he wanted to prove she was wrong. Not just to her, but to himself. He'd been the arrogant bastard for too long and it had gotten him nowhere. He wasn't going to play that game anymore, not when there was so much more at stake.

  He eased his hand from her grip and moved away from her, putting distance between them. Surprise flashed in her eyes, surprise that mimicked his own.

  "We don't need the blood test for the Acknowledgement of Paternity if you agree to sign the paperwork."

  Courtney made no move to hide her surprise—or her confusion. "The paperwork?"

  "Yes. My attorney already has everything drawn up. We both just need to sign it and he'll handle submitting it."

  "But…I don't understand. Submitting it for what?"

  "To correct Noah's birth certificate so it lists me as the father." She opened her mouth but Harland shook his head, cutting her off. "It's going to happen, Courtney. You can either agree to this, or the next step is a court order. And don't think I won't push for that because I will."

  A dozen different emotions swirled through her eyes, ranging from confusion and disbelief to contempt and disdain. He could see the silent question beneath them all, the same question she had been asking since he opened the door: Why? He expected her to ask again, but she didn't.

  And he was grateful for that, because it wasn't a question he could easily answer. He didn't know why; at least, not in a way he could put into words, not so she could understand. This was something he wanted to do. Something he needed to do.

  She sat back, curling into herself as she huddled into the corner of the sofa. Silence hung between them, thick with uncertainty and accusation. Harland watched her, looking for any sign of further fight—looking for any sign of emotion besides the contempt burning clear in her damp eyes. But there wasn't any, certainly nothing even close to resembling the painful revelation that had gripped him moments ago.

  She finally looked away, slowly nodding her agreement. The motion caused several thick strands of hair, a mix of pale blonde and purple, to fall into her face. He wanted to push them away, wanted to see her face.

  Because suddenly her agreement wasn't enough. He wanted more than just his name on a piece of paper, needed her to realize he was serious about that.

  "I'll have my lawyer set up the appointment."

  She nodded again and shifted, ready to stand. No doubt ready to run from him as she called him every foul name that she could think of. His next words stopped her.

  "That's not all. I want to see him. Spend time with him. Get to know him and let him get to know me."

  Her head twisted around, anger flashing in her eyes. "You can't—"

  "Yes, I can. And I will. Don't doubt me on this, Courtney."

  "I don't want you to! Don't you understand that? I don't want you to have anything to do with Noah. I don't want you in our lives."

  "I know you don't. But unless you feel like fighting me on this, I don't think you have any choice. And there will be a fight. All I have to do is call my attorney."

  She pushed off the sofa, each motion short and clipped, filled with the rage he could feel rolling off her. Her steps faltered and she stumbled, righted herself before she reached the door. Then she turned, her eyes blazing in spite of the tears building in them.

  "I hate you."

  Harland didn't let her see him flinch, couldn't let her know how deeply the words cut. "I know."

  Chapter Ten

  Harland glanced up at the scoreboard, watching the replay. So fucking close. Just an inch to the left and the fucking puck would have gone in.

  Fuck.

  Someone tapped him on the back and he turned, surprised to see Bryan Torresi, their head coach, nodding at him. No, he hadn't scored, but at least the coach wasn't throwing shit behind the bench. That had to be a good sign, right?

  Just the fact that he was playing was a good sign.

  His game still sucked. He still couldn't find the fucking net. But he wasn't scratched, and he was actually getting some ice time. Nowhere near as much as he used to, but more than he had the end of last season.

  More good signs.

  But he wished the fucking puck would have gone into the net.

  He reached for one of the water bottles and shot a stream into his mouth, swishing it around before leaning to the side and spitting it out. He shot another stream into his mouth and swallowed, his eyes searching the sparse crowd seated around the arena.

  Why the fuck hadn't he scored? He'd wanted it so damn bad, more than he'd wanted it in a long time. Noah was out there somewhere, watching him. Against Courtney's will but she didn't have much choice, not when Harland insisted she bring him. And maybe it was silly and totally foolish, but he'd wanted to score to make his son proud.

  Except Noah didn't even know who he was. And he'd bet his fucking salary the kid didn't even know what the hell was going on. It didn't matter. He was here—that was what mattered.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Jason tapped him on the leg with his stick, a frown on his sweaty face.

  "What?"

  "I asked what the fuck you were doing. You're looking everywhere but the ice. Come on, man, get with it."

  Harland grunted but didn't say anything. Jason was right, he needed to stop searching the crowds, needed to pay better attention. The score was tied with ten minutes left in the third. A lot could happen in those ten minutes.

  He leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees as Aaron battled to win the faceoff. Yes! Aaron passed the puck behind him to Kyle Middleton, who moved up the ice. Back and forth: Kyle to Aaron to Zach. One of the goons from Rochester hurried toward Zach but Ben Leach was faster, getting th
ere in time to stop the guy from taking him out.

  Harland leaned forward, his eyes focused on the play unfolding in front of him. His teammates passed the puck in front of the net, getting into position. Kyle to Zach to Aaron. Everyone on the bench went still, collective breaths held as Aaron moved in closer, pulled his stick back—

  Another Rochester player charged Aaron, catching him straight across the back. Aaron dropped to his knees as the puck went wild, careening behind the net. A whistle blew, sharp and long, ending the play.

  "Day-glo, get out there for Aaron. You know what I want you to do." Coach Torresi's voice was brusque as he called out orders, expecting immediate compliance. Harland didn't hesitate, just jumped the boards and moved down ice to get into position.

  "Fucking dirty play from your teammate there, fuck-wad. Guess that's the only way you douche canoes can win." Harland pitched the words low enough so only the guy from Rochester could hear. The guy looked at him, the sneer on his face clear, then turned and spit.

  "Fuck you."

  "Simple mother fucker. How long did it to take you to learn that comeback, asshole? Had to really tax the shit you have for brains for that one, didn't you? Fuck-wad."

  Another sneer. Harland leaned forward, meeting the other man's gaze, then smiled. Wide, bright, and full of contempt. The guy's eyes narrowed and he started to say something just as the puck dropped. Harland barreled into him, pushing him out of the way to get into position.

  Zach was in possession now, playing with the puck, his gaze darting between Harland and Kyle. He started to pass it to Kyle, stopped to spin around, shot it toward Harland.

  He reached out with his stick, felt the puck hit the blade, moved back and to the left. Zach was in position to the side of the net, all Harland had to do was pass it—

  Something hit him from behind with the force of a bulldozer, throwing him off balance. His shot went wild and he spun around, already throwing his stick and gloves to the ice. One punch caught him under the chin, making him see stars. His helmet flew off, landing somewhere behind him.

  Another punch caught him just under the eye and he felt the sting of skin splitting. It didn't matter, not when he could do this with his eyes closed. He grabbed a handful of sweaty jersey with his left hand and let loose with his right, landing more punches than he received.

  Rough hands grabbed him, pulling him back, separating them and stopping the fight. Harland turned his head to the side and spit then tugged his jersey back into place. He grabbed his gear from the ice and headed over to the sin bin, pausing long enough to give the other guy another wide smile.

  Maybe his scoring was still totally fucked up, but there was nothing wrong with his fighting.

  Chapter Eleven

  No, there was nothing wrong with his fighting.

  Except the pain afterward, which Harland was feeling forty minutes later in the locker room. A butterfly bandage was in place, covering the cut below his eye. An icepack on his jaw had helped with the swelling, but there was nothing to do for the scrapes on his knuckles. Some antiseptic and a little ice and he was ready to go.

  He glanced at his watch and swallowed back a groan when he saw how late it was. Courtney was supposed to meet him by the main doors of the concourse fifteen minutes ago. Would she still be there? Yes, she had to be. Harland didn't want to think of the alternative.

  He shrugged into the suit jacket and adjusted his tie then grabbed the small duffel from the bench. He tossed it over his shoulder and turned, running straight into Jason and Zach.

  "You going with us tonight?"

  Harland frowned at Jason. "Going where?"

  "Out." Zach motioned with his hands, a wide grin on his face. "You know, go have a few drinks, pick up some women. Celebrate the win. Out."

  "No, I can't. I'm meeting someone." Harland glanced at his watch again and tried to tamp down his impatience. "And I'm already running late."

  "Who are you meeting?"

  "Yeah. And since when are you ever on a timeline?"

  "Since I have someplace to be, that's since when. And it's none of your business." He tried to push past them, hoping they'd let it go and not ask any more questions. No such luck. They started walking with him, one on each side, the questions almost nonstop.

  Harland pushed the up button on the elevator then turned back to face them. "Guys, leave it alone. It's not what you think. I'm just taking my son out for ice cream."

  Jason and Zach both fell silent, identical expressions of shock on their faces. The elevator door opened behind him and Harland turned. Jason pushed in front of him, blocking his way.

  "Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. What the fuck did you say?"

  "You heard me."

  "No, I don't think we did." Zach moved in, crowding him from the other side. "Say that one more time, slowly."

  Harland moved the bag from one hand to the other, no longer bothering to hide his impatience. "My son. Come on, guys, out of the way. I'm already late."

  Zach grabbed his arm. "Wait. You can't just drop that bombshell and run away. When the fuck did you get a son?"

  "Not now, guys." Harland pulled his arm from Zach's hold then pushed past Jason just as the elevator doors started to close. He half-expected them to jump in the elevator with him but they didn't.

  "Tomorrow. After practice. You've got—" Jason's words were cut off by the closing door. Harland sagged against the wall and sighed in relief. He didn't need the two of them making this any more awkward than he was afraid it would already be. And he sure as hell didn't need either one of them around Courtney. That would be a fucking nightmare of epic proportions he didn't even want to consider.

  The door opened and he stepped out into the empty concourse. Everything was closed, the food and drink vendors, the souvenir concessions. Wire gates were pulled down, lights turned off. Fuck, was it later than he realized? He resisted the urge to check his watch again and hurried along the wide hall, the soles of his dress shoes clicking with each step.

  Would Courtney and Noah still be there? Please let them still be there…

  He turned the corner and stopped, his lungs aching for breath. Funny, he didn't remember holding his breath at all. It didn't matter because Courtney was standing just inside the door, talking to one of the security guards as Noah ran in a clumsy circle around her. No, not really around her. He was toddling back and forth in a tight half-circle, his hand held securely in Courtney's, her arm being dragged from front to back to front again with each half-lap Noah made.

  Nobody noticed him and he took an extra minute to gather himself, to straighten his tie and jacket sleeves, to run a shaking hand through his hair. And all the time, his gaze was on Courtney.

  He didn't know why his heart seemed to speed up at the sight of her. She wasn't dressed to stand out, wasn't wearing anything designed to attract attention. A pair of worn jeans sporting frayed holes in the legs, the hems tucked into a pair of black leather boots that stopped at mid-calf. A dark green sweater fell to her hips, the material almost shapeless on her.

  And her hair…her hair was completely different. Instead of pale blonde with a purple streak, her hair was now a warm vibrant reddish-brown. It hung loose around her shoulders, the gentle waves framing her face. He'd never seen her hair this color before. Growing up, it had been a light brown color. She'd started highlighting it her junior year in high school, playing with the color until it was mostly all blonde. He remembered teasing her about it, never understanding the need to change colors so often. And he'd always smile and tell her he liked the original brown, just to get a reaction from her.

  But he hadn't been lying. While all the shades of blonde she had experimented with looked good on her, he'd always missed the brown. Maybe it had been nothing more than nostalgia, but it had been his favorite.

  Until now.

  And Christ, what the hell was he doing? Was he really standing there like an idiot, gawking over the color of her hair? Yes, he was. He must be more nervous than he realized if
he was doing something so foolish. At least, that's what he told himself.

  He took a deep breath and let it out, then moved toward them. Noah saw him first because he suddenly stopped his back-and-forth marching and hid behind Courtney's legs. She glanced down at him then followed his wide-eyed gaze. Harland didn't miss the slight tensing of her shoulders, the subtle tightening of her mouth.

  Great. Two strikes and the evening hadn't even started yet.

  He forced a small smile to his own mouth and kept walking, pretending not to notice Noah's sudden hiding or Courtney's not-so-subtle body language. The security guard nodded at him, waved at Noah, then turned and left.

  Now it was just the three of them.

  The silence that settled over them was eerie, a heavy presence in the deserted concourse. Harland adjusted his grip on the bag and cleared his throat. "Sorry I took so long."

  His voice was too loud, almost booming in the awkward silence. His gaze moved from Courtney to Noah and back again. Courtney watched him for a few seconds, her gaze resting on the bandage under his eye. Then she shifted, turning so she was actually facing him. Or was the move designed to better shield Noah? Harland tamped down his irritation, determined to make this outing a fun one.

  He unzipped the bag and plunged his hand inside, searching for the souvenir he'd bought earlier. His fingers brushed against something soft and he closed his hand around it, bringing it out with a hesitant smile. He looked at Courtney, not sure if he should ask her permission or not.

  No. Noah was his son. He didn't need permission to give his son a gift.

  He bent down and extended his arm toward Noah. The gift was nothing more than a stuffed plane, a cartoon rendition of an old bomber with a soft gray material for the body and strips of black felt for the propellers. The York Bombers was embroidered in black stitching on the side. It even had a face stitched on it, the expression a cross between a smile and a grimace. At least, that's what Harland thought it was supposed to be. He wasn't really sure. Hell, he was still trying to figure out how this thing even remotely resembled the team's logo.