by Avery Flynn
“Oh,” January breathed, more sound than actual word. But his apology was so gruffly genuine, just like the Finn she remembered, that she heard herself say, “I accept your apology.”
His darkly stubbled chin snapped up. “You do?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” Unable to help it, she let a smile lift one corner of her mouth. “And don’t get me wrong. I was mad at you for a long time.”
“Like until ten minutes ago?” he asked, and God, she should’ve known better than to think he’d let her have the upper hand in the sly smile department.
“Maybe. But I know coming here to say all of that wasn’t easy, and even though you could’ve easily blown me off and still said your piece to Asher, you didn’t. I might have been mad at you, but I’m not a bitch.” January lifted one brow with a hint of humor before turning serious. “So yes. I accept your apology.”
“Thank you.” The rough edges of the words belied the softness with which Finn delivered them, but both made her pulse press faster at her throat.
“You’re welcome,” she said, waiting for just a beat before beginning to move down the hallway again.
Finn, however, seemed bound and determined to shock her in her tracks. “Let me do something to make it up to you.”
“Like what?” she asked, leading the way past the pair of small conference rooms and heading toward the bunks.
“Like whatever you want.”
January laughed for a full five seconds before she realized he was balls-out serious. “Whatever I want.”
The look on his face became a dare in less than a breath. “Pick anything.”
“Okay.” She paused in thought for a few seconds before stopping to open a glass door marked Lieutenant’s Quarters and placing the folder on top of Gamble’s insanely tidy desk. “Anything, huh? What if I want to get all dressed up and go to dinner at La Lumière?”
Finn shrugged. “I can’t guarantee I won’t bitch about having to wear a tie, but if that’s what you want…”
Ooookay, he had definitely taken one too many slap shots to the helmet since she’d last seen him. “Finn, I was kidding.”
“I wasn’t,” he said, and all that time away from Remington must have softened his memory of the ridiculously posh restaurant.
“You do know La Lumière books out a solid month in advance, and dinner is two hundred dollars a plate.”
Finn’s face became the nonverbal equivalent of ugh. “Then I’m definitely going to bitch about wearing a tie. Pick you up at seven?”
January made a noise that was mostly shock. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” Finn said, all truth. “Did you want to go shopping for a dress too? I don’t mind.”
How could he possibly be serious? “Oh my God, you are insane.”
One dark brow lifted in a move far sexier than it should be. “Is that a no on the dress?”
“Finnegan,” she argued, but she couldn’t keep her laughter at bay. “Even if I say yes to dinner, there’s no way we’ll get a table.”
The second brow joined its twin in a look of oh really? “I don’t mean to get bigheaded about it, but you do realize I’m the starting center for the team that just won the Cup, and that I happen to have said Cup in my possession for the next”—Finn flipped his wrist to check the time—“nineteen hours, right? Believe me when I tell you, if you want a table, we’ll get a table.”
For a few heartbeats, January said nothing, simply leading the way out of the pin drop-quiet bunk area and back to the hallway. Finally, she went with, “I know we’re not as close as we once were, but you don’t strike me as the type of guy who would throw around his status to get what he wants.”
In one swift move, Finn’s fingers closed around her forearm, heat pulsing all the way through her as he pulled her close enough to see the flecks of gold peppered through his whiskey-brown stare.
“I’m not. But I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for. If a fancy dinner is what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Even if you have to wear a tie?” she asked, although the words came out far breathier than she intended.
Finn made a face as if he was having second thoughts, but after a second, his expression gave way to a devastatingly sexy smile. “Yeah, even if I have to wear a tie. So what do you say, Calendar Girl?” His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest of seconds before returning up to meet hers, and oh God, January felt it everywhere.
“Can I pick you up at seven or not?”
4
Finn made his way back to the Plaza a way luckier bastard than when he’d left the place six hours earlier. But come on. Not only had he gone to Asher’s grave with the Cup like he’d wanted to for the last three years, but he was going out to dinner with a far prettier woman than he deserved. He wasn’t about to complain.
At least, not until his cell phone rang and his agent’s number splashed across his caller ID.
“Marty. It’s Friday afternoon. Don’t you ever relax?” Finn asked, pressing the phone against the stubble he’d been meaning to take care of for a couple of days now.
His agent’s laugh was a two to one ratio of flash to humor. “Not a chance, Donnelly, but let’s not kid ourselves, here. It’s not as if you do, either.”
“True.” Finn made his way into the suite’s kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. If Marty’s tone was anything to go by, he was going to need a bucket full of the stuff to make it through this call. “So to what do I owe the honor?”
“Do I need to have a reason to call my star center?”
Check that. Finn was going to need something a lot stronger than coffee to make it through this conversation. “You’re my agent, so in a word? Yeah.”
“Okay, okay,” Marty admitted. “How are things going in North Carolina? Are you having a good day with the Cup?”
And there it is. “We’ve been over this. I’m not doing any PR with the Cup.” He’d come back to Remington to tie up loose ends and say sayonara once and for all. Having his personal life splashed all over Twitter? Not his idea of a good fucking time.
Marty, of course, wasn’t impressed. “You’re the first player to have it for the day, Donnelly. The Cup is the single most coveted item in all of hockey, for Chrissake! Yet you haven’t done so much as a single social media post with it.”
“And I’m not going to, either. Look”—Finn tugged a hand through his hair before placing it on the cultured marble countertop for fortitude—“I’ll do all the hip-hip-hooray crap you want once I leave Remington in a few days. I get that PR is part of the deal. But I’m not budging on this, so can we talk about something else?”
For a second, he thought his agent would push the issue, and his heart thumped faster in his chest.
But then, surprisingly, Marty relented. “You’re the boss. Speaking of which, I had an interesting conversation with a few of the suits at the Rage last night.”
“Really.” Finn kept his reply perfectly metered despite the fact that the news did nothing to slow his already questionable pulse. “Anything noteworthy?”
Marty’s flashy laugh came back in full force. “Everything’s noteworthy when you’re up for a new contract. Unfortunately for us, so is half the damn organization. Along with a few dozen other centers around the league, all of whom are chomping at the bit to land on a Cup-winning team.”
Finn summed up his feelings with a muttered “shit,” and Marty seconded the sentiment. “I focused on the stats first, because numbers don’t lie,” Marty said. “You had a career-high forty-six goals this season, plus four more in the playoffs. You’re the first guy at practice and the last guy out of the film room. Frankly, I think the Rage would be morons not to line your pockets with Bentleys and supermodels.”
“Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Finn asked, dread pricking holes in his gut at Marty’s prolonged and unusual silence in reply.
“Because,” he finally answered, his tone telling Finn he was selecting his words with care
. “Look, you’re asking for a lot of cabbage with this new contract. Not that you don’t deserve it,” he quickly added, likely in a pre-emptive strike.
But no fucking way Finn was letting that slide. “You’re goddamn right I do. You know my stats are the real deal. I’m not some duster whose ass is permanently riding the pine. I earn every goal I score for that team.”
“Unfortunately, talent isn’t the only piece of the puzzle here,” Marty said. “Babineaux may have inherited the money he used to buy the Rage, but when it comes to business, he’s not a fuckwit. He owns a Cup-winning franchise. He’s got his pick of damn near any players in the league now, and he wasn’t subtle about letting me know it yesterday.”
Blood rushed through Finn’s ears in a rapid white-noise whoosh. “I busted my ass for that team, and to win the Cup. I’ve been making the league minimum for three years.” Which still wasn’t peanuts, but come the fuck on. Plenty of other hockey players made more than Finn was asking for. He’d signed on with the Rage when they were nothing but an expansion team with high hopes and not a whole lot else. “I’ve earned my way up on good hard work.”
“I don’t disagree. All I’m saying is, I’m not sure what kind of offer is going to come down from on high yet, so I want you to be prepared.”
“Prepared,” Finn repeated slowly. “For what?”
“The Rage isn’t the only team in the league, Donnelly.”
Finn lowered the empty coffee cup he’d pulled from an overhead cabinet, the china meeting the marble with a hard clink. “You’ve had offers from other teams?”
“I’ve had interest from other teams,” Marty corrected, and Finn cut right to the chase.
“Are they talking about enough money to make this conversation worth my while?”
The silence on the other end of the line inspired zero confidence. “Donnelly, listen. It’s not always about what these teams are willing to pay upfront—”
In an instant, Finn lost the fight with his frustration. “No. I don’t give a shit about the maybes and the let’s-sees. The Rage is my team, and I’ve more than earned my keep there. I’m not leaving New Orleans.”
Marty stayed true to form—not that Finn had expected anything less. “I know you want the recognition you deserve, and I get that you’re tight with those guys in Nola. I do. All I’m saying is, you’re twenty-five. Your entire future is in front of you, and the Rage isn’t jumping in with an offer right out of the gate. Maybe you should consider every option.”
Finn opened his mouth, but closed it just shy of his response. There was no way he could explain to Marty—Christ, to anyone—that the only place he’d ever belonged was on that team. He might not have a family, or friends outside of his teammates, or a home that didn’t involve pads and pucks and a shitload of ice. But Finn had hockey. He had the Rage.
He’d earned his spot there with three years’ worth of blood, sweat, and tears, and he was going to goddamn well keep it at fair market value.
“I understand there might be interest from other teams,” Finn said quietly. “But I’m only interested in getting the offer we all know I worked my ass off for, and the only team I’m interested in getting it from is the Rage.”
Marty exhaled but thankfully didn’t argue. “Well then. I guess I’d better keep that lunch meeting today with Babineaux. There’s nothing quite like reminding a team owner how spectacular one of his players is when the guy is up for a new contract.”
Finn let his hard-edged smile creep into his voice. “Come on, Marty. We both know you don’t hate playing hardball.” The guy’s shrewd, no-bullshit nature was half the reason Finn had hired him in the first place.
“Eh, you may be right,” Marty said, backing up the no-bullshit thing in spades. “I’ll work on the suits and keep you posted. In the meantime, your day with the Cup is half over. Do me a favor and at least try to take a picture with the thing? The more good PR Babineaux sees, the happier the son of a bitch gets.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Finn said.
But as soon as the words left his mouth, he knew they were a lie.
Finn waited until he was on the threshold of January’s condo to realize he probably should’ve brought her flowers. Then again, as much as he wanted to atone for having been a complete prick in the past, if he had brought her flowers, she might think this was a date. Not that taking her on a date would be a bad thing, necessarily, but he’d just freed up the top spot on her shit list after a seven year run. The least he could do was have the decency not to let his dick take point on their night out.
Unless she wanted him to, in which case…
“Oh for Chrissake,” Finn muttered, placing a trio of knocks on the door in front of him. This was January he was talking about. January, who had seen him sweaty and surly and sometimes even bloody after Tier 1 junior league games. January, who used to make him tell her when it was safe to look again during horror movies.
January, who had just opened the door to greet him, and fuck, he should’ve brought her flowers.
“Whoa,” Finn said, taking a step back into the hallway. “You look…”
Although several words came to mind, none of them seemed quite powerful enough to do her justice. Her blond hair had been tucked into a low twist behind one ear, with a few wisps escaping to frame her face. A pair of shimmery silver earrings hung in thin threads that nearly brushed her shoulders, but it was her dress that had Finn biting back a groan. Last night, he’d been certain January’s jeans were going to be the death of him. But they were nothing compared to the column of slate gray material clinging to her curves and hanging from the slender line of her shoulders by nothing more than the thinnest of shiny silver straps, and Jesus Christ, didn’t this woman own a single scrap of clothing that wouldn’t give him a raging hard-on in public?
“Thanks.” Flushing slightly, January gave up a ta-da style twirl that did nothing to restore Finn’s composure. “You look really nice too.”
He laughed. “I got lucky. Suit shopping on the fly isn’t for the faint of heart.” Thankfully, both the salesman and the in-house tailor had been hockey fans and had been willing to hook him up.
“Ah. Well I’m exhausting my only fashion option for this evening.” January gestured to the hallway in an unspoken shall we? and Finn nodded, offering his elbow.
“Something tells me you don’t wear this to the firehouse.”
“Yes and no, actually,” she said, grabbing his attention. “This is my go-to dress for the RFD’s annual fundraiser. It’s usually a big deal gala-type event.”
“That sounds nice,” he ventured warily, but her laugh in response told him he’d been flat-out busted.
“Sure. If you like staid and stuffy, it’s fantastic.”
Finn reached out to open the door for her, leading her to the rented SUV he’d parked in front of her building. “A fancy party doesn’t seem like the best fit for a bunch of firefighters,” he admitted.
“In truth, it’s not. But the people with the deepest pockets tend to be Remington’s Who’s Who, and they like to be wowed. That’s why we’ve always done a gala in the past, but I’ll admit, with the steady decline in attendance and donations we’ve seen at recent events, I think this year is going to be a challenge.”
“You sound like you have a pretty vested interest,” Finn said, and January waited until he’d ushered her into the passenger seat, then gotten in to start the SUV before lifting her hands in pure you got me style.
“I volunteered to chair the event this year.”
“Damn.” He’d been to enough charity fundraisers for the Rage to know that planning one was a massive undertaking, even on a good day. But organizing an event like that as a volunteer? “That’s pretty impressive.”
January’s tart laughter made Finn consider repeating himself, just so she’d keep it up. “I don’t know if it’s so much impressive rather than slightly crazy. The fundraiser is in a month, and the previous chairperson just skipped town to move in with
her boyfriend in Chicago. Of course, that was after she did basically nothing by way of legwork, so I inherited a bit of an uphill climb.”
“Okay, you win. That does sound slightly crazy.”
“I know,” she said. “But if we hit our fundraising goal, five firehouses in the district—including Station Seventeen—will get new, state-of-the-art masks. The thermal imaging built into the equipment offers a substantial increase in visibility, which obviously helps the firefighters see potential hazards and find people more easily in burning buildings. Not to mention keeping them a whole lot safer on fire calls because they can get in and out faster.”
Finn followed the directions on the GPS, his thoughts tumbling. “There have been a ton of advances in sports gear, helmets in particular. It’s pretty cool to know that sort of technology exists for first responders too.”
“That technology comes at a cost, though,” January said, her frown audible.
“How much are we talking?”
“Over six hundred dollars a pop, and that’s not even counting the compatible lighter-weight SCBA tanks, which can be just as expensive.”
Holy… “Damn. No wonder the equipment isn’t in the city’s budget,” Finn managed, and January gave up a resigned nod.
“Especially since between engine and squad, there are eight firefighters at Station Seventeen alone. But if we can get the gear in even one firehouse, it’ll be worth the effort.” Her smile grew again, brightening her face in the waning evening sunlight. “So I don’t really mind putting in the extra hours to plan the fundraiser.”
Finn took her in with a sidelong glance. “You really keep that place afloat, don’t you? Making schedules and keeping everything running smoothly so those guys can do their jobs without thinking twice.”
Being a woman of her word, January had taken him on a complete tour of the firehouse while he’d waited for the firefighters and paramedics to return from their call, showing him everything from the engine bay to the equipment room. It had been all too easy to see how organized everything was, and how hard January had worked to get it that way.
