by Avery Flynn
Still, she had too much pride to call him. She couldn’t take him not picking up, or hanging up the phone. Lying in bed the night she’d torn up the check, she’d let herself imagine him calling and telling her that he’d made a mistake. But she hadn’t gotten a call.
She had appeared on local TV before. Prior to her segment, she made sure there were a couple versions of the main dish she planned to prepare and a couple of fun entertaining ideas to share. The make-up artist clucked over her face so long she didn’t get to decompress in the green room before they pushed her into the soundstage kitchen.
She smiled at the perky, hungry-looking co-anchors and forced herself to smile. She hated being on display like this, especially now that people outside of the culinary world in Minneapolis knew who she was.
Every line of her body felt tense when the producer counted down. Some of her anxiety eased as she went through the recipe, answering inane questions about the preparations and possible wine pairings. By the time they got to the apple crisp with honeycrisp apples, she felt almost completely at ease. Both co-anchors had stuck to questions about the food and the resort.
The last thing she was expecting when the anchor threw to commercial was to hear him say, “And, in our next segment, local hockey-hero Anders Sorenson will join us to talk about his future in hockey. Stay tuned.”
Dahlia wasn’t sure if the station had gone to commercial when she dropped the entire pan of dessert on the counter at the same rate that her stomach fell.
Anders was in the building with her right now.
It had to be a coincidence, or a mistake, or a sick fucking joke from the universe. Her first instinct was to run, leave her knives and her street clothes and run down Nicollet Mall before he saw her or found out she was here. Her second instinct was to find him and kick him in his good leg for not letting her explain. And her third, and most unreasonable, idea was to find him and drag him into a supply closet to remind him what he was missing out on by not being with her.
But while her mind flew through the possibilities, Anders came out of the green room and looked straight at her. Fire raced through her veins—a heated combination of lust and a little bit of anger. The more disturbing sensation was the open, raw wound in the middle of her chest as she froze under his icy gaze.
He didn’t stop looking at her while walking over to the grouping of chairs where he’d presumably be interviewed. Time stretched out as she ate up the vision of him in a suit. His gait was smooth, and he moved in that supple way athletes always walked—no hitch in his step.
She’d never seen him dressed up, and that was a damned shame. If he was hers, he’d be required to wear a suit every day. But he didn’t belong to her. He hadn’t called, even to tell her to fuck off.
When his mouth curled into a smile, she didn’t know what to think. Was he happy to see her? Or was he going to do something shitty—like deny that they had ever been together—on television? She didn’t think he would do that, but this whole situation was so weird she couldn’t feel her hands anymore.
When he sat down, he gave her one last look and mouthed wait for me.
Another guy in a suit showed up at her shoulder, and if he asked her to move, she was probably going to have to punch him in the junk. Anders wanted her to wait for him, and it was the first bit of home she’d felt since tearing up that check.
“I’m Sam,” the man said as he leaned in.
“I don’t care who you are. I’m staying here.”
“Anders asked me to make sure you caught his segment.” She put a finger over her mouth in the international symbol of shut up, and the guy chuckled. “You’re trouble.”
“I will be if I don’t see this.” She crossed her arms over her chest, running hot and cold and more nervous than she’d been before the previous segment. She felt like she was going to faint or throw up or die, and she wasn’t the one on television anymore.
Then the producer counted down and the sports anchor introduced Anders.
When Anders took his gaze off hers and put the careful smile back on his face, she felt as though he’d tossed a glass of cold water on her face. The anchor—thankfully—stuck to business. This wasn’t the way she wanted to find out that his knee was going to be okay, but that didn’t stop the relief from sinking into her bones.
“Not all the publicity you’ve gotten recently has related to the Cup or the Ragin’ Cajuns.”
He breath caught and she clutched her throat with one hand, hoping to stop any sounds from coming out.
Anders shook his head, smile gone. “No, unfortunately, my personal life has gotten quite a bit of attention lately.”
“Specifically, there was a bounty on something we can’t talk about on morning TV.”
Anders looked at Dahlia, and she didn’t know whether it was good or bad. The man standing next to her disappeared and the anchor could have fucked off for all she cared when Anders said, “I think we can talk about me falling in love on morning television.”
“Love?” The anchor’s one-word question was the same as the scream inside her own brain.
“Yeah, love.” Anders didn’t look away from her, and she thought she’d turned into some swooning maiden. “I’ve been so focused on hockey since I could stand up on skates that I’d forgotten what was important. This injury—it forced me to take some time away and re-evaluate what I really want. And the bounty was always a stupid distraction. In a way, it kept me focused on the game.”
“But the bounty’s over.”
“Yeah, Phil, the bounty’s over.”
“Well, Anders, thanks for taking the time to come on and good luck—”
Blood rushed in her ears and she grabbed the counter for balance. Before she knew what was happening, Anders had his mic off and was stalking towards her. His gaze was trained on her, and she felt like prey as he approached. He grabbed her arms, probably more forcefully than he’d ever touched her, but it made an awareness deep in her belly hum.
“Get lost, Sam.” Then he turned all of his lightning-hot attention on her. “Green room?”
She nodded. “You mean me?”
He furrowed his brow. “Huh?”
“You love me?”
He smiled then. “We should talk about this in private.”
“You said you loved me in a very public way.”
“But that’s the last time anything between us is public.”
She walked with him down the corridor. They were the last two segments, and they were alone once her shut the door to the room where guests waited for their bits.
She didn’t know if she should touch him, but he took away that worry when he set his mouth on hers. At that moment, she knew that he’d meant what he’d said. The last couple of weeks had made her feel like she didn’t have a grasp on reality, that her few days with Anders had been a nice dream, but that her world was dim and quiet and limited.
But she hadn’t imagined this heat and fire; it came back in full force the second he laid his hands on her. He palmed her ass over her chef’s pants, and she moaned when he squeezed. She pressed her pelvis into him, eager to feel him hard against her belly.
Reluctantly, she stopped and pulled back. “You can’t know that you love me.”
He furrowed his brow again and reached for her. She backed up until her legs hit the couch.
“I love you.”
“Then why did you leave without a word?”
“I was confused about everything. What happened between us moved so fast that I couldn’t believe it was real.”
“If you’d just needed a beat you could have told me that.” She walked back toward him, but she didn’t trust herself enough to touch him again. If she did, she’d get lost in him, and maybe he wouldn’t say what he needed to say—what she needed to hear—for her to be able to trust that this was a real thing between them. “You thought I accepted the bounty.”
“For a few days.”
Knowing that he believed that about her, even for a f
ew minutes, gutted her.
“How can you say you love me when you believed that?”
He grabbed for her hand, and she let him take it. She still wasn’t confident that she could accept this apology, but stopping this small touch was beyond her.
“I’m sorry. I was wrong.” He leaned down and touched his forehead to hers. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Everything about the two of us confuses me.”
“Maybe you’re confused.”
He looped his other hand around the back of her neck, and she felt the touch all the way to her toes. “I’m not confused anymore. A few minutes after I left, I realized that it wasn’t you—it couldn’t be you who told people about us. It was Motz, the dweeb.”
“He left before I could rip up the check and stuff it up his ass.”
“I knew it had to be something like that.” His smile proved the fact that he liked the visual she’d created.
“And if you need the money to leave and be close to me in New Orleans, I’ll get them to re-issue it.”
“I’m not taking the money.” She would figure it out. She’d work fourteen-hour days as long as she could spend a few minutes with Anders every day.
“But you’re coming to New Orleans?”
“If you want me there.”
He let his head fall back, but he didn’t make a sound. A long moment stretched between them. Before she said it, she didn’t know that she was going to go all in with Anders. She didn’t know what being a hockey girlfriend entailed—and she was pretty sure she didn’t fit the bill at all. But she was willing to try for a man who said he loved her on television. When he looked back down, the smile on his face told her that she’d said exactly the words he needed to hear.
“Did you arrange for us to be on the same TV show the same day?”
“Of course. Your mom and uncle agreed, but Lilly threatened to kneecap me if I used this to hurt you.”
“You did all that, to talk to me?” Her head spun. No one had ever done anything big for her. Hell, she’d never gotten flowers from a boyfriend. Anders went on TV, got questioned about the bounty, so he could tell her he loved her.
“You’re not mad?”
Dahlia didn’t answer, she kissed him instead. They’d have plenty of time for talking on the plane.
About the Author
Andie J. Christopher writes edgy, funny, sexy contemporary romance. She grew up in a family of voracious readers, and picked up her first Harlequin Romance novel at age twelve when she’d finished reading everything else in her grandmother’s house. It was love at first read. It wasn’t too long before she started writing her own stories — her first heroine drank Campari and wore a lot of Esprit.
Although, she set aside writing fiction for a while, her love of reading romance novels stayed with her through college, law school, and multiple cross-country moves. During one long East Coast winter, she decided writing a book would be a good excuse to avoid braving the elements. It was love at first write. Her heroes are dirty-talking alphas, but her heroines traded Esprit for Free People. (None of them would turn down a Campari, though.)
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COURAGE
Copyright © 2017
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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.
Created with Vellum
To those living their happily-ever-after.
Keep the flame burning…
1
“Mason, people usually smile during moments like this.”
“Unless that is him smiling.”
Mason Courage cocked a brow at the Cajun Rage’s owner Michael Babineaux, who sat across his large desk, chuckling at his own remark. Mason returned his gaze to the team’s general manager Steven Garey, trying to process what they were telling him—or rather, what they had offered.
Head coach of the Cajun Rage.
It still seemed surreal.
“I’m flattered by the offer, really. But what about Thibodeault? He still has a few seasons left in him.”
Doesn’t he?
Based on the shared look between the two men, Mason had his answer. The realization that the team’s current head coach wouldn’t return to his position filled him with a sense of loss he hadn’t expected. For all of Guy Thibodeault’s surliness, he was a great coach, and had been an even better mentor these past three years.
“That heart attack hit him hard, and was more serious than we all anticipated,” Steven said. “We wanted to wait until we made your promotion official, but it looks like Thibodeault will be heading toward early retirement.”
Shit.
Mason was certain the team would feel the loss.
“It’s been clear for some time now that Guy wasn’t up to leading a championship team,” Michael said. “It’s time we had the right guy for the job. And that guy’s you.”
“What are you talking about? Coach Thibodeault is the one who got us here. Without him, we wouldn’t have won the Cup this season.”
“Technically, without Zim’s save on that ice in game seven, we wouldn’t be New Orleans’ new local stars.”
Mason frowned at him. He had nothing against Michael. He just didn’t care too much for the old-money type that chose to be hands-off only when it suited them. They had all sacrificed to get this win. Hell, there was a big chance that Thibodeault’s heart attack was largely due to the stress they had put themselves under.
“Look, Mason, we’re not taking anything away from Thibodeault,” Steven said, pushing away from the desk he had been leaning against. “He’s been good for the team, but we’ve been watching you. We see how you manage the team. More importantly, we notice how they respond to you. It’s only right that you take on the head coach position permanently.”
Mason stared at the men, not sure yet what to say. This was exactly what he had been looking forward to since he had joined the Cajun Rage as assistant coach three years ago. Many assistant coaches looked forward to this moment. He had just never expected the moment to come so soon.
“If you need more time to think about it—”
“I don’t,” Mason said abruptly. Soon or not, he had no intention of turning the job down. “If Thibodeault is retiring, then I’d be honored to take over for him.”
“Excellent,” Steven said. “This is turning out to be a big year for us, Mason. Don’t let us down.”
Mason rose to his feet. “When have I ever?”
He had come a long way from the hotheaded agitator he had once been as a player in the league. A wife and two young kids had a way of taming any bad boy—at least, they had for him.
“We know this is the off-season and you might have plans with your family this summer,” Steven said, “but leave some room on your schedule to help vet a replacement assistant coach.”
“Sure. Do you have anyone in mind?”
“We’re looking at a few candidates but haven’t arranged anything yet. Besides, we want to first announce these changes to the team before we make Thibodeault’s retirement public.”
“Any idea when that will be?” Mason asked. Their players knew about his interim position as head coach, and many had no issue with it. But how would they take learning the position would now be permanent?
“As we speak, Harlan is drafting a statement on Thibodeault’s behalf,” Steven said. “We have a press conference scheduled at the end of this week to make an official announcement. We’ll use that to a
lso announce your promotion.”
Lucky me.
He hated talking to the press.
“After the press conference, we expect planning for next season to begin sooner than later,” Michael added. “Winning the Cup was big for us, but it was just the beginning. We have a bigger season ahead of us.”
Mason inclined his head and left Steven’s office. If Michael Babineaux knew him at all, he wouldn’t have wasted his time with that comment. Mason was already thinking about the scouting reports and training videos he planned to review for next season.
Mason made it to his office, but before he could settle himself behind his desk, his personal assistant Doug Cullen rushed inside. He had the forethought to shut the door behind him, but it was the pallor on his narrow face that made the muscles on Mason’s shoulders bunch.
“What is it, Doug?”
“You haven’t seen it, have you?”
“Seen what? Don’t tell me there’s another video of Archer out there.”
Mason gritted his teeth and braced himself. For all their talent and heart, some of the players couldn’t seem to keep themselves out of the media.
“Um…it’s a little more serious than that,” Doug said, shifting on his feet. The lack of color on his face made his red hair that more pronounced.
“Spit it out, Doug,” Mason snapped. “I’m not a mind reader.”
“Well…uh…I should probably just show you.”
Doug pulled out his cell phone and fiddled with it before handing it to him. Mason took the phone, his brow pulling into a deeper frown. For a second, it took him a moment to recognize the photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. It was the only photo of their very private wedding that had been released to the media eight years ago, in order to satisfy the vultures and put an end to the harassment.
But it wasn’t the fact that the photo had resurfaced these many years later that bothered him. It was the alteration to it that brought his blood to a slow boil. The image included an altered rip in the center, effectively tearing the photo of them in two.
