by Lynda Aicher
He grabbed her elbow, eyes wide. “Damn. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Well, you did.” She shook off his grip, scowling at her lack of awareness. “What are you doing here?” A shaky laugh bubbled out as she took him in now that her eyes had adjusted to the light. He’d stripped down to his underclothing again, the tight shirt and briefs concealing everything while hiding nothing. Every groove and dip of his muscles was defined under the black moisture-wicking material, including his solid thighs that were half-bare and his sculpted calves below. The view didn’t help her heart rate at all.
Thankfully, she was already out of the locker room—and dressed. As much as she demanded it, she didn’t trust her willpower to deny him if he’d caught her in the shower again.
He held up his phone. “I wanted to get your number. In case something changes next week.”
“Talk to Coach O if it does. He knows how to reach me.” Could she be a bigger bitch? Evidently, not with him. Her stomach soured around the bitterness he didn’t deserve.
He plowed his fingers through his hair and released a loud sigh. “Does everything have to be a battle with you? We’ve been working together for weeks. It’s an innocent request.”
Guilt had her grimacing. She hung her head and bit her lip to hold back her apology. Give an inch… And your opponent will plow you over. Separating her personal and game life was turning out to be harder than walking away from the sport.
“You’re right,” she finally mumbled and tugged her phone out of her pocket. She called up her contacts. “Give me your number.” She typed in the digits as he said them, saved it then sent him a text so he’d have hers. His phone dinged a second later. “There. Happy?” And who was the immature one now?
He typed on his phone then lifted his head and smiled. Her phone pinged and she rolled her eyes before checking the text message. I’d be happier if you kissed me goodbye.
She smiled despite her effort not to. Jerk. She responded with a quick Keep dreaming then shoved her phone in her pocket. He stuck out his lip when he read her response. The pouty look was so incongruent with the pro athlete, she actually laughed.
“Go lift weights,” she said as she passed him. “It’ll work off some of your frustration.”
“I can think of other ways that are more fun.”
“I’m sure you can,” she called over her shoulder, grinning. “Maybe one of the guys can help you with that.”
He shook his head and hustled to catch up with her, flip-flops smacking loudly in the quiet. “So what do you have planned for next week?”
She took a second to decide if he was talking in general or about their session and decided to go with the second option. “We’re going to work on your mental game.”
His smile dropped from his face and his steps slowed. “I don’t need my head checked out.”
“I didn’t say you did.” She braced the end of her stick on the ground and faced him. “But it’s a facet of the game that many athletes ignore. With so much focus on the physical aspects, the head game is often forgotten.”
“And what qualifies you to do that?”
“Nothing, really. I plan on getting my master’s in sports psychology—not that I’m qualified to analyze anyone yet.” She took a breath and rushed on when he frowned. “The pressure of last season, knowing it would be my last and how big the games were, was getting to me.” She’d never admitted that to anyone besides the psychologist, and she swallowed down the panic at exposing so much. “The exercise I want to try is one that worked for me last year. I thought it might help you too.”
There was her pounding pulse again, drumming in her ears as heat flushed her skin to rush over the chills that shuddered beneath. She had no idea why she’d confided that except that she really believed it would help him, and that was what she was being paid to do—help him. Trusting he’d keep her confidence was something she hoped she wouldn’t regret.
It took a long time before he nodded, and her sigh of relief that he didn’t dig in to her revelation was blessedly silent. “I’ll give it a shot,” he said, his voice subdued. The defensive nature of his pose with his arms crossed over his chest suggested he wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea.
“Is it any worse than working with a girl on your skills?” It irritated her to say that, but it got the reaction she wanted.
“What?” He screwed up his face in a scowl. “Why do you keep pushing that? If I had an issue working with a girl, I wouldn’t be doing this.” His adamant reassurance of what he’d already proven eased some of the tension that’d crept through her muscles.
“All right.” She let a slow smile form. “I’ll stop questioning that if you stop questioning what I’m doing.”
He rubbed his hand over his jaw, lips pinched. “You know something, Yates? You drive a hard bargain.” A bit of his drawl dropped into the last words and his half grin was all swagger. “My granddad would be right proud of you.”
“Tell your granddad I trained with the best.” She tapped her stick to his arm and walked away.
“I’ll do that the next time he calls,” he responded. Her grin faded though when she caught the mumbled, “Like that ever happens.”
The urge to turn around to comfort the pained tone of the words had her moving faster. It was better to pretend she hadn’t heard them at all. How could she acknowledge them without getting closer to him? Everyone had family issues of some kind to deal with, and it wasn’t her job to help him with his.
A low bitch filtered through her head that she firmly ignored. Being soft wouldn’t get her anywhere.
The cold air smacked her in the face when she left the building. A timely wake-up call to the blaring fact she’d been grinding against since May. Where did she have to go that required her to be so hard?
Chapter Eleven
Music pounded in Dylan’s ears, the noise-silencing headphones blocking out the locker room chatter. While he usually listened to country music, he switched to something with a heavier beat before each game. It was the energy he was searching for, not so much the exact words or a specific band.
They were coming off a Vancouver victory last night, so the team was on a high. Unfortunately that didn’t mean much. Every game was its own.
He rocked his head to the bass, eyes closed. In his mind he saw the Edmonton offensive lineup. One by one, he ticked off the strengths and weaknesses of each player. After that he ran through their own lineup. He was paired with Cutter again, like he’d been through most of the season. They worked well together, but it was still one pair away from where he wanted to be.
A nudge to his arm had him opening his eyes. Walters motioned for Dylan to remove his headphones.
“Yeah?” He paused his music and set the headphones in his lap.
“How’s the hip?” Walters was good like that. Checking in with guys before each game, giving pep talks when needed and mitigating disputes that could boil over to the ice.
Dylan automatically rubbed at the sore spot and managed not to wince. He’d taken a hard hit to the boards last night, but it wasn’t anything abnormal. “Good. A little tight, but I’m fine.” Nothing some ibuprofen wouldn’t take care of.
Walters nodded and stood. “Watch your left side and be ready to attack the middle if Parker’s on the ice.”
“Noted.” Parker tended to slack in the third period, leaving Edmonton vulnerable down the center where he played. Dylan was ready to take advantage of that if he got the chance.
Walters moved on, and Dylan tracked him as he stopped next to Hauke and Collins, the right and left wingers who flanked him on the offensive starting line. The three worked seamlessly together on the ice, their chemistry currently one of the best in the league.
Dylan closed his eyes and envisioned himself sitting before a packed media room, fielding questions on the game they’d just won. One he’d helped decide by scoring the game-winning goal on a defensive breakaway. He saw it all. From him stealing the puck to speed
ing down the ice and the snap shot that sailed the puck past the goalie to the back of the net. It didn’t matter how many times he’d pictured it, it’d yet to materialize in his pro career.
That didn’t stop him from repeating it one more time.
“You getting dressed tonight, Cowboy? Or are you going to sit on your ass like you did last night?”
Dylan flipped Feeney off and ignored the gibe. He’d played decently last night, so Feeney’s smack-talk was just a bullshit attempt to rile him up.
Fortunately none of the guys had identified the bruise on his hip as a new hickey and razed him on that last week. Its location had made it unremarkable, considering the number of black-and-blue marks they all sported during the season. He’d forgotten to thank Samantha for that. He’d have to do so the next time he saw her.
A vision of her taunting smile beneath sky-blue eyes replaced everything in his mind. That had been happening on a frequency that left him flexing between annoyed and fascinated. Was it simply her hard-to-get game that had him so interested? He didn’t think so. There’d been bunnies who’d tried that and it’d never worked on him. He had no interest in being hitched to a woman or dealing with the complications a relationship would inevitably add to his life.
But he couldn’t deny that even though Samantha was frustrating as hell, he looked forward to seeing her every time.
His soft chuckle rumbled through his chest. Aunt Bea was probably cheering Samantha on.
“What’s so funny?”
He shook his head at Karver, who sat on the bench next to him. “Nothing.”
The man leaned in, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “You thinking of that hellcat who left those marks on you?” His brows popped up in excited speculation before he barked out a laugh and punched Dylan on the arm. “You can send her my way if she was too much for you to handle.”
The thought of Samantha with any of his teammates sucked the good mood out of him. He glared at Karver as he replaced his headphones and restarted his music. The man leaned back, a smile breaking across his face in what Dylan assumed was an open laugh. He couldn’t hear it though, which kept him from retaliating in any way.
He didn’t want anyone suspecting he was thinking about a specific woman, and acting jealous would only wind his teammates up. Jealous? Over a woman? Damn. There was a new one.
His phone vibrated in his lap and he lifted it to see a text from Samantha. His smile was automatic. He’d been surprised last night when she’d sent a congratulatory one after their win. This message was more like her. Watch your left side tonight.
With so many people reminding him of the same thing, he was starting to get a complex over it. He unlocked his phone and typed, Is it really that weak?
It was only moments before her response came back. No. Just a small flaw.
A small flaw? You being nice now?
Never.
He laughed. Shocker.
Someone has to keep you on your toes.
You signing up for the job?
There was a pause that had him biting his cheek before her reply came back. It’ll cost you.
His imagination went wild with the multiple ways he could pay her. I can afford it.
Lol. I doubt it. Good luck tonight.
Thx. He didn’t want to end the dialogue, but it was time to dress and get his head into what he needed to do. Play his game and kick some ass doing it. That was the only thing that mattered for the next three hours.
*
Sam looked at her black phone screen where it sat on the bar in front of her. Why had she texted Dylan earlier? Being nice, she reminded herself. Encouraging and supporting a fellow player. Something she used to do all the time.
She’d sent one to Meg right before Dylan’s.
And the fact that she was trying to justify a text said everything. If she really thought of him as only a friend, then she wouldn’t have been overthinking it for the last hour.
She took a drink of her beer and deliberately watched the pregame announcers on the flat screen TV over the bar. They always overanalyzed every game, but that was what they were paid to do. She’d thought about going into that field then nixed it when she was reminded of the glass ceiling she’d have to keep fighting.
At least there was a possibility of breaking through in the announcer area. When it came to the game of hockey, there was no chance at all. Hell, she wouldn’t even call it a glass ceiling. It was actually an impenetrable concrete blockade.
She was in the middle of mentally blasting the barrier to hell when a hand landed on her shoulder with a solid thump. She jerked around. “Hey, Dad.”
“There’s my girl,” her dad said before she was engulfed in one of his bear hugs. The scent of his fading aftershave hit her with a mixed memory of comfort and resentment. He stepped back, his smile deepening the lines around his eyes. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.” She moved her coat off the seat she’d saved next to her. “How’s the team going?” The AAA bantam travel team her dad coached was in a tournament in St. Paul that weekend.
“Decent,” he answered as he shrugged off his down jacket and slung it over the back of the bar stool before he took a seat. He brushed a hand over his gray hair, which had only receded slightly over the last few years. His cheeks were tinged red from the cold, a state that was normal for him. “Some of the boys have real potential.”
That was true every season. Her dad’s coaching reputation was based on over twenty years of consistently churning out kids who continued to the majors and beyond. Three actively played on pro teams. Not bad, statistically.
“Good.” She flagged down the bartender, and her dad ordered a beer. In his mid-fifties, he still worked out and skated regularly so he could keep up with the fourteen-year-olds he coached. The thought of him with a beer belly made her chuckle. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to any games today.”
“I know you’re busy.”
She stared at the TV so her dad wouldn’t see the guilt on her face. With only one class, she had plenty of free time. It was the thought of talking hockey all day and dealing with the continued questions and speculations about what she was going to do next that she wanted to avoid.
“How’s Mom?” she asked to change the subject. “I thought her back was feeling better. She’d said it was at Christmas, anyway.” Her mom had taken a nasty spill on an icy patch of sidewalk two years ago and had suffered with severe back pain ever since.
“She was.” He cracked open a peanut from the complimentary bowl on the bar. “But you know how it is. One quick move, and it flares up again. The doctors only give her more pills,” he grumbled. “Say there’s nothing else they can do.”
She patted her dad’s arm. They’d had this conversation many times, and words wouldn’t change the situation. “Let me know if I can help.” Her parents lived two hours north of Minneapolis, so it wasn’t impossible to get home.
“We’re okay,” he reassured her. “Her sister’s there now. There are some benefits of staying in the town where you were raised.”
“I know, Dad.” She took a drink of her beer instead of letting her sigh out. He’d love nothing more than for her to come home and be a coach like him. “I’ve got my fingers crossed on getting into a good school in Northern California for next fall. They have one of the best master’s programs in sports psychology in the country.” Living in the shadow of her father for the rest of her life wasn’t one of her goals.
She saw more than heard his humph. A cheer went up in the bar as the referee dropped the puck and the Glaciers game started. They ordered some food and watched the first period with their comments limited to what was happening on the screen. As always, it was easier for them to discuss hockey than anything else in her life.
She tracked Dylan whenever he was on the ice. His playing was solid, and she smiled at his overdiligent guarding of his left side. She’d have to lighten up on that comment. Overall, he was a good, consistent player. Had to be, or he wou
ldn’t be on the team. But he was just shy of standing out from the other defensemen. The potential was there for him to mature into that space, and given his age, it was completely possible.
Was she really the right person to be helping him get there? She added that to the list of things she’d been doubting since hanging up her skates. Her career, her future, her life… Melodramatic much?
The period ended with no score and her plate mostly cleaned. She took one more bite of her burger and called it quits. “Do you want my fries?” she asked her dad just to bug him.
“You know those things will kill you.” Some people said that about cigarettes, but her dad classified all fried food as being deadlier than the nicotine sticks. He pierced the last of his salad with his fork and finished off his meal, leaving only the cucumbers.
“But they taste great doing it.” She popped one last fry in her mouth, even though she was full, before pushing her plate away. She beamed at her father and dismissed the rock that had formed in her stomach.
Her dad wiped his hands then face with his napkin and tossed the crumpled item onto his plate. Always clean-shaven, his heavy brows defined his face and had served as warning signals for her growing up. She’d learned to read every twitch, arch, rumple or quirk of movement. The slightly lowered scrunch told her the conversation was about to get serious.
“How are you really doing, Sam?” His brown eyes peered into her in an all-too-familiar way. This man had served a dual role in her life as her dad and coach since she’d been born. That inquisition stare had been successfully used to get her to reveal every guilty act that sat on her conscience. From flushing a boy’s hat down the toilet when he’d called her a wimpy girl who couldn’t skate to toilet-papering Mr. Humphries’s tree when he’d told her she should let the men play a man’s sport.
She looked back to the TV and tried to brush the question off. “I’m fine, Dad. Just looking forward to moving on from here.”
