by Lynda Aicher
“Dick.”
Dylan laughed and deflected the pillow toward Karver, who snagged it out of the air and shoved it behind his head.
“The pussy only fake drinks,” Feeney said, his eyes hidden behind the hand that propped his head up. “He leaves the real stuff to us men.” And his being one year older than Dylan and willing to get stupid drunk launched him into the status of a real man.
“No way.” Shaffer gaped at him. “But your parties are legendary.” Last night was the rookie’s first appearance at one of Dylan’s bashes, since he held most of his parties during the summer.
“Good to know my reputation precedes me.” Dylan smirked at the man and took a satisfied sip of his drink. That was the main reason he held the damn parties, so at least the mess and hassle was worth it. Any press was better than no press when it came to keeping his name in front of the fans. His agent had hounded that into him since he’d signed with the man six years ago.
“How was the parade today?” Karver asked, his voice having lost some of the gruffness of earlier.
Dylan shrugged. “All right.” He kicked the other man on the knee. “I missed yours though. She must’ve fled really early.”
“Naw. She didn’t even stay the night.”
“Even better,” Feeney muttered.
“What about you?” Shaffer nodded to Dylan. “Any luck in the bunny hop last night?”
“A man doesn’t kiss and tell,” Dylan answered, putting on the southern charm he played as easily as the hockey puck. He thought of his big, empty bed and smiled, letting the others believe what they wanted. His image as a party boy was his own doing and he worked hard to keep it going.
“No. If a man’s smart, he fucks and runs,” Karver interjected. He lifted his head off the couch to spear Shaffer with a pointed stare. “Always glove up no matter what she says or how drunk you are.”
At Shaffer’s retort, Dylan ducked out of the room before the conversation came back to him. The grousing over the previous night continued as he took up his seat on the bar stool and restarted the game he’d paused. He wanted to finish his notes before practice so he could work on his shots for tomorrow night’s game.
At some point, Bowser stumbled up from downstairs to flop into the recliner Dylan had vacated. Dylan half listened to the other guys’ conquest conversation but wasn’t that engrossed in it. Hooking up with one of the many willing women who wanted nothing more than to say they’d screwed a pro athlete was a distraction he didn’t need. He’d been there, done that, which had fed into his image. He’d also learned the women wouldn’t help his game, and that was his sole focus right now.
“What are you watching?” Bowser asked when he trudged into the kitchen. At five foot ten and lean, he was one of the smaller forwards, which meant he had to be crazy fast on his skates to stay ahead of the bigger guys. He looked over Dylan’s shoulder. “That last night’s game?”
“Yeah.”
“Colorado lost, right?”
“Two to one,” Dylan confirmed. The Glaciers played the Avalanche at home the next day, which gave them ice advantage but nothing more. “You in the lineup tomorrow?” Bowser had spent most of this season as part of the Glaciers’ twenty skaters who dressed for each game, but as a third line winger, his spot was questionable every game.
“As far as I know.” The man shrugged as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “I always assume I am and hope I’m right.”
Dylan followed that philosophy himself. His second pair defense spot was a bit more secure than Bowser’s, yet anything was possible in a game that changed nightly based on injuries and luck—good or bad. That was precisely why he was studying the other team. Chance wasn’t a game he liked to play.
He checked the time and stopped the game. “Any of you hungover slugs up for a bike ride?” he asked as he passed the sprawled-out men.
“Outside?” Shaffer whined.
“Downstairs,” Feeney answered for Dylan. “Cowboy has a fuck-awesome gym down there.”
Karver was already moving to stand. “I’m in. I need to sweat the alcohol out before practice.”
“Shit,” Bowser moaned. “I guess I have to if the rest of you are.”
“You bench riders have such a hard life,” Karver mocked.
“Like you can talk.” Bowser smacked the man on the back of his retreating leg.
Dylan shook his head and disappeared down the hall to his bedroom. Working out wasn’t an option for him. Not when the average retirement age for pro hockey players was twenty-five. This season was too critical for him to fuck around or fuck up, and the pressure of that weighed on him every damn day.
Chapter Two
Samantha Yates skated along the edge of the crowd at the outdoor rink, smile in place. The ice was packed that New Year’s Day with people who’d shown up to the fundraising event. The cold temp and gusts of frigid wind didn’t scare off the hardy Minnesotans when there was a chance to skate with professional hockey players.
She gripped her stick tighter and deflected a puck a grinning girl shot her way.
“Thanks, Sam!” the girl shouted before she skated off, stride determined as she weaved through the other skaters, in complete control of the puck.
A flicker of remembered optimism brought a whimsical puff of derision. That’d been her once. She’d had to skate faster, be quicker, have better skills in order to compete in the boys’ leagues growing up. She’d made it too. First to the US national development and world championship teams, then a full-ride at the University of Minnesota and finally the pinnacle event, being a member of the USA team last winter. A goal she’d had since women’s hockey was first allowed into the international competition in the late nineties.
And now she had nowhere left to play.
There were local leagues that could’ve kept her active in the sport, but it wasn’t the same as being on a serious competitive team.
Of being pro and being paid for it.
She blew out a long breath and forcibly placed that kernel of irritation into the back of her mind. There was nothing to be done about it. She was born a girl, much to her father’s consternation. Twenty-five years later, her status hadn’t changed. Which was why she’d opted to walk completely away from the sport. It was better to focus on her next goal than begrudge what could never be.
One of her old Gopher teammates and fellow member of the USA team was there with her, but their fame was overshadowed by the Minnesota Glaciers players who were also at the event. Three men she could easily keep up with on the ice, but they were being paid hundreds of thousands—millions—of dollars to do what she could do.
And there was nothing she could do about it. Damn it.
It’d been seven long months since she’d made her choice to leave hockey, and her acceptance of it was still a work in progress. Her conscience was the sole reason for her being there today. It was the first time she’d been on the ice in an official capacity since May, but outfitting kids in expensive hockey gear was worth a few hours of her time.
She skidded to a stop by the boards, gaze tracking through the passing skaters to land on two of the Glaciers players, Dylan Rylie and Scott Walters, shooting the puck around on center ice. The first was a cocky, young defenseman whom she could school in a hot second. The other a respected veteran center and team captain whom she could learn a thing or two from.
There was a group of kids around them, watching with animated faces that showed their adoration. It was well earned by both men. They had worked as hard as her to get to their level, and she couldn’t knock that. The fact that Rylie was younger than her, in his third season with the Glaciers, and gorgeous in a way-too-perfect way still managed to annoyed her despite her determination to let her envy go. That little knot of lingering contention had her wrestling with the urge to goad him a bit.
All in fun, of course.
“Hey,” Megan Granger said as she came to a stop beside her. “I know that look.” She tracked Sam’s gaze to the game of
keep-away going on at center ice. “Don’t do it.”
Sam flicked her hair over her shoulder and flashed a wide grin at her former teammate. “What?” Unfortunately Meg knew her too well.
Meg’s scowl drew her brows into a scrunched band that had her resembling an irritated elf with her flushed cheeks and pinched mouth. “You’re going to get us in trouble again, aren’t you?” At five foot six, the winger had amazing speed and a shot that was cunningly accurate.
“Moi?” Sam intoned and attempted an innocent expression. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” Meg heaved a sigh coupled with an exaggerated eye roll. Her breath puffed out in a cloud of white before it drifted away. “Just promise me Coach won’t be making me do extra sprints tomorrow.” While Sam’s college career was over, Megan was in her senior year with the Lady Gophers.
“First,” Sam said, “I’m not getting anyone in trouble. And second…” She waited for an opening in the skaters and broke away from the boards, skating backward so she could grin at her friend. “You don’t have to participate.”
She flipped around and headed to center ice. Meg’s complaint was lost in the cut of blades on the ice and the rock song that boomed through the speakers. The outdoor rink was a popular spot located near the stadium where the Glaciers played and was known for its music, hot cocoa and oversized ice that was artificially chilled.
She circled around the outside of the kids, eyeing Rylie and Walters play. There were two boys in between them, trying unsuccessfully to cut off passes the professionals made to each other. Dressed in their royal blue and gold Glaciers jerseys and jeans, the men weren’t there for competitive play. Neither was she. The red, white and blue jersey she wore today, along with the silver medal tucked away in a safe deposit box, were her sole souvenirs from her final year of professional play.
Timing was everything, and she waited for her moment to kick up some fun on an otherwise blasé event. The charity that donated hockey equipment to kids from military families was a great cause that would benefit from a little show. At least, that was what she told herself.
“Don’t be stupid,” Meg warned in her ear.
“Why not?” Sam asked. “What do I have to lose?” Absolutely nothing. She’d never do anything to smear her name, but it wasn’t like she had a hockey career to worry about. Or a coach she was accountable to.
Or a reason to behave.
Rylie was spending as much time tipping his trademark worn brown cowboy hat at the passing women as he was paying attention to the kids looking for pointers. The ends of his brown hair curled over the back of the gray hoodie he’d worn under his jersey and seemed to match his hat color almost perfectly. Too perfectly.
Nicknamed Cowboy within the hockey world, he was dubbed Pretty Boy as well. The second label was coined his rookie season by a sports announcer and as far as Sam had heard and seen, the man cultivated both brands equally.
“Hi, Rylie,” a group of teenage girls dressed in skinny jeans and overdone makeup chorused as they skated past. Rylie shot them a nod and grin that somehow managed to be appropriate for the age of the girls.
Sam shook her head and chuckled at his easy charm. The guy had it all. Talent, looks, personality—he was a star in the making. One full of potential if he didn’t get distracted by the fame and parties he seemed to enjoy.
Walters smacked the puck toward Rylie, and Sam broke through the kids to swoop across the ice and steal the puck from the preoccupied man. A cheer went up from the kids when she circled the pro player, puck firmly in her control. The air chilled her cheeks and laughter rang in her ears as she sped away.
A quick glance over her shoulder showed Rylie chasing her, the determined pull of his brows blending with a full smile that somehow managed to put a matching one on her face. She caught sight of Meg and passed the puck off before she stopped then took off in the direction she’d just come from.
The circle of kids widened as Walters got into the play, tailing Meg. She swooped around a group of unsuspecting adults, using them as a pick to cut off Walters, and she smacked the puck back to Sam.
“Think you’re hot stuff, do you, Yates?” Rylie was at her side, jabbing his stick at the puck with no effect. She was under no illusion the man knew who she was. Her name was printed in big letters across the back of her jersey.
“Just having some fun.” She cut a sharp circle and faced off Rylie, who skidded to a quick stop.
He tapped his stick on the ice, an indulgent half smile on his lips. “Come on then.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You and me to the net.”
Her stomach did an unwanted flip when his eyes landed back on her. An interesting mix of brown and green, they seemed to dance with the same excitement that flooded her. The challenge was exactly what she’d wanted and his proposition was the best offer she’d had in months. On or off the ice.
“You are so on,” she said, grinning.
She’d watched him play many times, knew his weaknesses and exactly how to exploit them. She couldn’t watch a hockey game without analyzing every player. It was what she did, had learned since her dad had strapped her into skates when she was two years old.
The ice had cleared behind him, a wide berth given between them and the net that sat inside the skating loop.
“Clear the ice behind the net,” she shouted down the rink. Without a backdrop, she’d have to hit the net with her shot or risk hurting an unsuspecting skater.
“We’re on it,” a kid yelled before he and a couple of others took off to do as she’d asked. By then, word had spread of the pending challenge, and a crowd was forming behind the kids who’d been watching the entire exchange.
“Rylie is so going to show her,” one boy jeered.
“My bet is on Yates. She rocks,” came another voice.
“Is that true?” Rylie asked, his smirk teasing.
Sam glided forward until she was a breath away from the man. She had to look up to meet his eyes, but she was used to that. His size didn’t intimidate her, nor did the pro tag attached to his name. What she wasn’t used to was the sudden jolt of awareness that hitched her breath. His lopsided smile, blunt nose and defined brow meshed under the tilt of his cowboy hat in a way that had her nerve endings buzzing and her thoughts scattering.
But to what end? She’d learned early and hard that trusting a man like him outside of the rink would only lead to heartache.
“You know nothing about me, do you?” She held his gaze and managed to keep her disappointment to herself. There was no point to it when she shouldn’t care if he did or not. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had little clue as to who she was or what she’d accomplished in the sport.
He leaned on his stick and tipped his hat. The brown rings around his irises seemed to grow darker and blend with the green on the outer edges the longer she stared him down. The man really did have gorgeous eyes that went with the rugged line of his jaw, and wasn’t that the way life worked? Something so appealing just had to be packaged in a product she’d sworn she’d never try again.
“Now darlin’,” he drawled. “There’s no need to get upset. I can’t know everyone.” The inflection rolled false from his tongue when just moments before he’d spoken with no hint of a southern accent.
She narrowed her eyes at the change. The flip to the playboy that seemed to fit him yet didn’t. “Why don’t you drop the act and just play?” she asked, her voice low and serious. “Your game would improve tenfold if you played as you and not some jacked-up image.” He had to know that was true.
His eyes narrowed, the amusement dropping from his face along with the twang in his voice. “My game’s fine.”
She flicked up her brows then winked. “Sure it is.” She skated backward, loving the cloud of doubt that wiped away his smug pretense. “I bet I score on you in under thirty seconds.” She had no clue where that came from other than a sudden need to prove herself to him. Maybe it would be her last hurrah before she tossed her
skates back in her closet and returned to her studies.
He jerked his hat off. “Hey, Feeney,” he called to the Glaciers enforcer. “Catch.” He whipped the cowboy hat to his teammate, ran a hand through his hair then turned back to her, smirk in place. “You’re on. You score on me, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“There you go assuming I’d want a drink with you.”
“Since you won’t be getting it anyway, it doesn’t really matter.”
“You’d better not back out when I do win.” She let her grin show, loving the underlying camaraderie that went with the gibes. It was all part of the competitive nature that drove them to be better. Gender didn’t play a role on that level.
Rylie leaned forward into a defensive stance, stick propped across his knees. “If I win, then you get to buy me a drink.”
She barked out a laugh and maneuvered the puck to where she wanted to start. “Not going to happen.” She found Meg on the side, huddled together with Walters and Feeney. Traitor. “Hey, Meg,” she called, upping the stakes another notch. “Get your phone out and time this for me.”
Meg frowned but did as Sam asked. “What am I timing?”
Sam checked the status of the ice and saw the general skating had come to a stop. “How long it takes me to score.”
Laughter combined with jeers rang around them, and Sam let the energy fill her. God, she so missed this. The competition, the hype. The thrill of doing the one thing she did best. This was nowhere close to the games she’d played last year, but it was the most fun she’d had since she’d left the sport behind.
The music cut off, plunging the rink into sudden silence before a male voice boomed through the air. “Ladies, gentlemen. Kids and fans. Thank you all for coming to support the wonderful charity Blue Line Defended tonight. I’ve just been told that a bonus has been added to our evening of skating with the pros. It appears Samantha Yates, a killer center who scored a hundred and ten points in thirty-six games in her final season with the Gophers and seven points in five games to lead the United States to a silver medal last winter, has levied a wager against Glaciers defensemen Dylan Rylie.” A cheer went up at his name along with a “we love you, Rylie” that turned Sam’s stomach.
