Smack.
Fuck. Right in his glove.
No goal.
I shake it off as I abruptly stop in front of Kingston, making sure to spray him with ice to show my disappointment, even as I say, “Nice save, Rush.”
“You’re getting a little predictable there,” he tells me in his thick Boston accent.
Predictable? Did he really just say that? I sigh as I accept that he’s not wrong. I am getting predictable, and if Kingston can see it, I’m sure the opposing teams’ goalies will be able to see it, too.
“Let’s do it again.” I’m here for practice, so I might as well take full advantage of it.
When Kingston tosses the puck back to the ice, I draw it in with my stick, then head to the opposite end once more. Now that training camp is over and the regular-season games are about to start, I’m gearing up to go balls to the wall. That’s the way the season is for me. Nonstop pressure. Oddly enough, I work well under pressure. I haven’t made it to where I am because of luck or from riding other players’ shirttails, that’s for damn sure.
We’re a week out from the first official game of the season and I plan to be ready. Two years in a row we’ve managed to come out looking pathetic. I still can’t even explain how we could go from being the defending Cup champions to last place.
I’m not going to let it happen for a third year. No fucking way.
“Hey, Optimus!”
Shit.
I don’t have to look up to know who that voice belongs to. I pretend not to notice while I once again focus on the puck. I need these few seconds to clear my head before I can concentrate on what Coach has to say. It can’t be good if he’s summoning me out here on the ice. Technically, this is my time, not his.
I see Kingston point, then he stands up straight, obviously trying to get my attention. I ignore him, too. He’s not guarding the net and with any luck…
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter to myself when the big guy deflects the puck with his body. As I move by him, I raise my voice so he can hear my frustration. “Shit. Damn sure not looking forward to this right now.”
Seriously. That’s an understatement.
Twenty minutes after Coach summoned me from my one-on-one ice time with Kingston, I’m walking into his office. When I woke up this morning, I damn sure didn’t plan for this to be part of my day. I don’t want to be here, but I’m doing my damnedest not to let it show. I’m a professional like that. I can pretend with the best of them.
As I step into the room, I quickly assess my surroundings. Nothing unusual here. Same decent-sized room with the same cheap oak desk covered in papers, old coffee cups, and other crap. A couple of framed pictures of Coach’s wife and two daughters. Same worn-out chairs facing it. One of which I assume I’ll be sitting in.
Typical hockey coach office.
What’s not typical are the players in this particular game. There before me are Darren Moen, the head coach, Phoenix Pierce, the owner of the Austin Arrows, as well as Tarik Marx, the team’s spokesperson. Those three are the only ones in the room. However, I’m not sure that’s a good sign. I’ve talked to Coach in this room on numerous occasions, but never with the team’s owner present. I can’t even guess what they might want to discuss. It could be anything, honestly.
Not that it matters. I don’t have time to contemplate what their next step might be when I hear people coming in behind me. As I take a seat in one of the chairs Coach directs me to, I turn and…
What.
The.
Fuck.
I should’ve been taken aback by the fact that Mark Coleman—the executive director of media relations—is standing in the doorway, but I hardly give the big guy a glance. Nope, six foot five inches of big, black, muscled man in a well-fitting smoke-gray suit are all but invisible right now. My attention is drawn to the redhead standing at his side. Her wide green eyes are locked on my face, and I see what looks a hell of a lot like fear there. Funny thing is, I know she’s not scared of me. But the same can’t be said for how I feel about her.
“Spencer, you know Mark. And this”—Coach nods toward the redhead—“is Amber North. She’s the new assistant director of media relations.”
I can’t even muster up the energy to acknowledge her. I’m too stunned to move.
“Amber,” Mark says, “this is Spencer Kaufman, better known as Optimus. He’s the team’s captain.”
I don’t think Amber is paying any more attention to the introduction than I am. After all, it’s not necessary. We’re pretty well acquainted since at one point in our lives we saw each other naked. More than once, might I add. Considering I dated her most of the way through high school and through the first half of my first year at college, we’re already on a first-name basis. First, first, first. Yes, that about sums it up when it comes to Amber. First serious girlfriend, first girl I slept with, first chick who shattered my heart into a million pieces. Oh, and she was also the last girl to do that. I’m not a dumb ass; no sense in living through that shit more than once.
I accumulated all those firsts in the four fucking years before she dumped me.
With a message.
On my fucking voice mail.
Amber nods, but neither of us says anything.
Whatever Coach and Phoenix hope to accomplish during this meeting, I’m not sure if they’ll be successful. The rage that has consumed me as my past creeps back up has made it damn near impossible to focus … on anything except for the woman who sucker-punched my ego and disappeared seventeen years ago.
Somehow I process the fact that Mark and Amber take a seat, and it even registers that someone is talking, although I can’t tell you who. I’m caught up in staring at Amber. She looks so much like the girl I was head over heels for, but so different at the same time. She’s pretty, but not in the conventional sense, I guess. Her nose is a tad too big, her eyebrows a little too thick.
Or maybe that’s just me being a dickhead. Hell, I don’t know.
She looks the same. That’s all I know. I’m sure she would say the same about me.
“…wouldn’t you agree, Kaufman?”
At the sound of my name, I shake myself out of my reverie and shift my focus to Coach. I nod, although I have no fucking clue what he asked me.
“Good. As the players start to arrive on Monday, we’ll tell ’em to meet in the conference room.”
Great.
Phoenix speaks up and I resist the urge to look at Amber again. “I’ll introduce you, then you can introduce Amber,” he says to Mark. “We’ll let them know what the strategy is, and then we’ll start talking to the players one at a time if that works for you.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mark concurs.
“Good. There are a couple of players I need to address directly. They’re my main focus this year, and it’s not necessarily regarding their abilities on the ice, although that’ll be your main focus.” Phoenix is looking at Coach.
“Absolutely.”
“As for you…” Phoenix’s head swivels in my direction. “You’re going to be an integral part of this. I want you involved and I’ll share my reasons with you later.”
I nod, not sure what to say to that. As the team’s captain, my duties generally pertain to talking to officials on the ice and the obligatory promotional event, but that’s not set in stone. Basically, I do what I’m told to do, and this time will be no different.
Phoenix slaps his palms on his legs and gets to his feet, signaling the meeting is over.
And to think, I showered and changed for that.
I manage to stand, still feeling a little woozy from the blast from my past, but again, I shake it off. Just because Amber North has made a reappearance in my life doesn’t mean anything has changed. I’ll simply make sure I don’t have to see her. That’ll be the best thing for both of us.
“Se
e you on Monday morning. Bright and early,” Coach calls out as I’m making my way toward the door.
Amber’s slender hand touches my arm as I pass, and I give it a furtive glance, narrowing my eyes as I lift them to her face. I can see she wants to say something. Too bad I have absolutely nothing to say to her.
Without giving her a chance to speak, I shrug her off and head back to the locker room. I’m going to need a few minutes—maybe a few years—to adjust to the fact that the only woman I’ve ever thought I loved is suddenly back in my life. And I don’t think she’s here to be my friend.
Which is probably a good thing since I have every intention of pretending I don’t know who the fuck she is.
Noelle
IF I THOUGHT ENDURING MY parents’ never-ending interrogation regarding the difference between positive thinking and actually having an imaginary boyfriend was bad, then answering the phone right now is going to make an already awkward situation that much worse.
Yet “Problem” by Natalia Kills is singing from my iPhone—a fitting ringtone for my sister—and I’m staring at the screen: Julie calling…
I do not want to answer this. I do not want to answer this. It’s too freaking early in the day.
Oh, brother. I’m going to answer. Being that I’m a glutton for punishment and all.
Crapola.
Reluctantly, I hit the button and put the phone to my ear. If I ignore my sister, she will simply get in her car and drive over here. Since I need to focus on the lunch rush, which’ll be starting in an hour and a half or so, I should probably get this over with. Seeing her grinning like I’m some sort of nutcase would be worse than having to talk to her on the phone.
“Yo,” I answer, putting a hint of impatience in my tone. Julie knows I’m at work. The least I can do is make her think I’m busy.
“Please tell me you’re not pretending you have a boyfriend.”
On the other hand, if she was forced to drive over, I could put this off for a little while.
“Noelle, I’m serious. Mom told me you have a pretend boyfriend. Said you actually made him dinner.”
I choke on a laugh. “I did not make him dinner.”
I didn’t. I put a place setting out. There’s a big difference. Huge. I really didn’t make him dinner. I swear. That would’ve been silly.
For the record, I don’t have an imaginary boyfriend. I don’t actually think there is a man in my apartment. The spot I’ve cleared out for his shoes in my closet … that’s part of the positive thinking. Sending out my wishes into the universe and hoping they’ll come back to me, blah, blah, blah.
Which, now that I think about it, I probably should’ve kept that all to myself.
Maybe it sounds a little delusional.
“That’s not what Mom said,” Julie argues.
“What’d she do? Call you when she was leaving my apartment? Ask you if you know when I lost all my marbles?”
I cannot believe this is happening. I’ve been so careful. Not even my best friend, Ellie, knows about this, and that woman knows me better than anyone on the planet.
“Maybe,” Julie says. “Oh, and before I forget, Mom and Dad want us to go to Fredericksburg with them this weekend. I already told them yes for both of us. And before you complain, I talked to Ellie, so she’s good with covering the bar while you’re gone.”
I love how my sister manages to choreograph my life. Not.
I sigh.
“Okay, now back to the serious matter. Noe. You can talk to me. I promise I won’t judge you.” My sister doesn’t even pretend to hide the amusement in her tone. I should’ve known Julie would have a laugh at my expense.
I snort. I can’t help it. My sister has always been the perfect little princess. My parents think she can do no wrong. Sometimes I think they’re right. Since she was little, she has always done the right thing. She’s kind, considerate, probably spends half the day walking old ladies across busy intersections. Always puts everyone else first.
Kind of like Ellie, now that I think about it.
And just like me and Ellie, my sister and I are complete opposites. She’s a few inches taller than me, wispy thin, with long sandy-blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a sweet, cherubic smile. At twenty-seven, she looks like she’s still a teenager.
Me, on the other hand … I got my height from my mother. I lied on my driver’s license and said I was five two when really I’m only five one. Everything else I got from my father, including my blue eyes (my best feature if you ask me) and my naturally curly blond hair, which I keep short because it’s a pain in the ass to deal with. Oh, and I don’t think anyone has ever mistaken me for sweet. I think the word they usually use is quirky.
Whatever.
Seriously, Julie has a teaching degree, which she put to use for a good five years teaching first grade. After being laid off a year ago due to budget cuts in her district, she started working on her degree in early childhood development. Which, in my opinion, is pure insanity. The mere thought of spending time with little kids… No way. There is only one little kid I like—Ellie’s daughter, Bianca—and that’s only because I’m obligated as the best friend. Other than her, I do my absolute best to stay far, far away from munchkins. It’s hard enough when they come into the restaurant. Somehow, Julie has made that her passion in life.
Of course, I never went to college, never sought out a degree. I never wanted to. I still, to this day, have nightmares about high school. My parents would’ve been more than happy to pay my way. I probably should’ve taken them up on it and sought restaurant management or something like that. Instead, I spent my early twenties dreaming about the restaurant Ellie and I wanted to open. I waitressed and saved every penny I could. Honest to God, I have loved every second of it.
And now… Now I’m more than happy waitressing at the Penalty Box. Sure, it’s cool that I’m part owner of the place. Since it would be tactless to go around shouting, “I own this place, hear me roar!”, I take orders and deliver food and drinks instead. I laugh and joke with the customers because I love it. And maybe I manage the kitchen, but whatever.
When it comes to relationships, Julie has friends by the bucket load. I have one friend—Ellie. And Julie’s never been hard up for a boyfriend, either. In fact, until last year, she was on the cusp of getting engaged to this guy she’d been dating for a few years. Unfortunately, we only thought Timothy Williamson was a great guy. He turned out to be a major douche. When Julie lost her job, he admitted he had absolutely no intentions of taking care of her. Not even in the short term. Like me, my sister doesn’t put up with a lot of crap, so she kicked his skinny ass to the curb. If you see Tim the Tool, let him know he has not been missed.
“There’s nothing to judge,” I say, wishing my sister would simply let this go.
“No?” Julie giggles. “Can you say pretend boyfriend?”
I mentally stick my tongue out at my sister, once again sighing. I decide to be honest. “I’m reading this book about positive thinking. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. The Secret. It’s a good book. You should read it. I’m simply putting my positive thoughts into action.”
“By pretending you have a boyfriend.”
I hate that Julie states that as fact. “No. By letting the universe know that I’m here and I’m willing.”
“Does Ellie know about this?”
“No,” I snap. “And she better not find out, either.” The last thing I need is for my best friend to give me crap about it. She’s always asking me why I don’t go out with one of the hockey players who asks me out. And yes, there are quite a few who have. My simple answer is that I don’t want to. Sure, it would be fun to land a hockey player, but only because we would have that in common. I’ve grown up around the sport since my dad’s been doing the announcer gig for as long as I can remember. I’m certainly not after a man for his money. I just love hockey, a
nd it’d be cool to have a guy who enjoyed the game like I do.
But honestly, that isn’t the biggest reason I’ve said no. I’m actually looking for a guy—how do I put this?—a guy who is good. In bed.
Okay, there, I said it.
And if you’ve met the hockey players I know, you probably don’t want them to be the ones to provide the mattress-rocking, headboard-slamming sex. I’m sure some of them could, but … no. For one, everyone and their great aunt Mary would know about it come morning. Great Aunt Mary would then call me a hussy. I’d be upset. It would be a mess. Not interested. No thank you.
“Does this fantasy guy have a name?”
I huff. “Seriously, Julie. He’s not imaginary. He’s out there somewhere, and I’m simply putting my energy into summoning him to me.” Okay, that sounded weird, I’ll admit it.
My sister is quiet for a moment. Most people would’ve laughed their asses off after I told them that. Not Julie. No, I can picture my sister sporting her body-hugging T-shirt and her skintight jeans, hair styled perfectly, sitting on her pretty flower sofa, legs crossed gracefully, the phone to her ear as she stares across the room and draws up a mental image. That’s how she works, so telling her doesn’t freak me out nearly as badly as having my parents witness it firsthand.
“Okay,” Julie prompts. “Help me understand this. Mom said there was a place setting for dinner. But you don’t actually cook for him?” Of course, she sounds skeptical.
“No.” I don’t bother to mention the imaginary conversation with him, though. That’ll only make me look crazy … –er. Yep, I think I passed crazy when my parents stepped foot in my apartment last night.
“What else do you do?”
For a second, I debate how much I want Julie to know. I mean, really, I’ve been keeping this secret from everyone for so long. Now that it’s out there … I’m actually a little relieved. Well, as long as Ellie doesn’t find out, then I’ll be fine. She already thinks I’m quirky enough, and she will never let me live this down.
Kaufman: The Season (Austin Arrows Book 2) Page 2
