Game Play

by Lynda Aicher

  Once again her past was clouding in to harm her present. She owed Dylan an apology. An explanation for her biting reaction. The words wouldn’t come out though, no matter how long their standoff lasted. Years of fighting her own battles were too ingrained to abandon for a fake accent and canned reply.

  Her boots were silent on the ice as she headed to the exit. She sensed him following more than heard, his cowboy boots shuffling only slightly with each step. Emotions churned in a jumbled mess that was becoming too familiar when she was around him.

  The yoga mat absorbed the force of her hard grip where she channeled her anger. It was better to think on that than the fear that kept her from looking back at Dylan. Not when she couldn’t identify exactly what had her so scared.

  The clunk of the rink door latching closed behind her was her cue to stop. Her breaths were deep and the clamminess that’d collected on her skin evaporated at a speed that matched the shiver racing down her spine. Her overreaction to the entire event left her cornered.

  “Your jacket.”

  She opened eyes she hadn’t realized she’d closed to find her black jacket, the gold embroidered M with the Women’s Hockey logo on the front, glaring up at her in a reminder of what she no longer had. Was she ever going to let it go?

  Her movements felt disembodied when she took the jacket from him. Automatic to preserve the last of her pride. Why that was so important, she couldn’t define right then.

  “Th—” She cut off the croaked word and cleared her throat. It didn’t seem to matter anymore if he saw that hitch as a weakness. “Thank you.” She got that out on a solid note that was close to normal. “I’ll email you the audio clip when I get home.”

  There was a long pause where she inspected every stitch and button down the front of Dylan’s denim coat. “Okay.”

  That was it.

  He walked away without a backward glance, the effect more chilling than the sudden shiver that shook her again. The tit-for-tat sensation only served to level a dose of guilt on top of the twenty other mixed-up emotions she was trying to ignore.

  Trying.

  The problem was Dylan kept stirring them up every time she thought she had them calmed down.

  “Dylan,” she called, almost against her will. She hustled to touch his arm before he turned the corner at the end of the hall. “I’m sorry.” She had a world of crap to figure out in her own life, but that didn’t give her the right to shovel some of it on him.

  He stopped, turning an emotionless face to her. In so many ways, that was better than the canned smirk. “For what?”

  She lowered her hand, a soft chuckle slipping out. “You’re going to make me work for this, aren’t you?” He arched a brow in response, a light coming into his eyes. “Yeah, I’d make you.” She took a deep breath, smiling on the exhale. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I’m so used to holding my own against guys, fighting for every ounce of respect that I get from other players, that I sometimes forget I don’t have to fight for everything.”

  His lips quirked up, and her stomach flipped at the boyish charm. He ran his knuckles down her cheek in a tender stroke that had her longing for what she’d always resisted. “You don’t have to fight me.”

  She turned her cheek into his touch, absorbing the relief that came with his gentleness, and made the decision to let another piece of her past go. “I was burned once by a fellow teammate,” she said, her gaze lowered so she could get the words out. “A guy I was foolish and naïve enough to trust. I was a teenager. I thought we were on a date. He had a bet that he could score with the only girl on the team. In one night, I went from being a respected player to an inside joke, even though we only kissed. What killed me the most was I knew better. I knew how locker rooms work. The posturing and lies, especially at that age.” She shook her head in self-disgust. “The humiliation stuck with me. Along with the anger at my own stupidity.”

  The dark anger that swirled in Dylan’s eyes when she glanced up blew through that tender spot in her chest. The one formed by Andrew’s callous actions. “Didn’t anyone on the team have the balls to put that asshole in his place?”

  Her puff of humor was filled with sarcasm. “Right.” Grooves from Dylan’s fierce scowl marred his forehead, solid lines that had her reaching to smooth them out. “I left to play on the US development team soon after, so it didn’t matter. Last I heard, he’d bombed out of the Canadian majors and was back at home working as a waiter.”

  “Is it too late to kick his ass now?” The serious note in his tone had her smiling. The incident was years ago, but his eagerness to defend her went a long way in easing some of that old pain.

  “Yes,” she said, sliding her fingers down his cheek before she let her hand drop to her side. “He’s not worth it.”

  He searched her, long and deep before he spoke. “I’m not out to hurt you.” There was a soft roll to his voice, a hint of his heritage that was so authentic she couldn’t doubt or fault it.

  And what was she out for? “It’s hard for me to trust that.”

  “Then I’ll have to work harder.”

  She chuckled at his persistence. A trait she was slowly coming to admire. “And if I keep fighting you?”

  His smile grew into a full grin that showed the dip of his dimple. “I hear make-up sex wipes the slate clean.”

  His inappropriate joke somehow managed to lighten everything that’d pressed on her only moments ago. She rolled her head back and let her laughter tumble out until she found that elusive bubble of happiness that had been dodging her for months. How did he do that?

  Maybe because he’d already proven he’d never stoop to making her the butt of a locker room joke.

  It was a solid reminder that she shouldn’t judge the man before her based on the acts of a juvenile teenager. She smacked him on the arm with the yoga mat as she walked around him, grinning. “You don’t need more reasons to have sex.”

  “Not with you,” he said, pacing her. “But you seem to need them.”

  She shook her head, enjoying the banter more than she should. “Go away, Dylan.”

  “So what? No make-up sex then?”

  “Don’t you have something to do?”

  “You?” He wiggled his brows. “I have plenty of time for that.”

  “Not happening,” she sing-songed. She paused with her hand on the exit doors to take in the man who continued to surprise and challenge her. “At least not today.” She pushed outside, his pained groan following her. “I have a class.”

  “Tomorrow then?” he called after her.

  “Keep dreaming, Rylie.”

  “Hey, Samantha.” There was a serious note to his voice that had her turning back to him. His joking expression had been replaced by a solemn one. “Thank you for doing that with me.” He motioned behind him. “I think it’s really going to help.”

  Her heart did a side shuffle with her stomach as she studied him. “You’re welcome. And I hope it does. You’re a good player, Dylan. You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren’t.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “But I need to be great.”

  She had no response for that. Every pro player had that desire and drive. Settling for good was when the next great guy swooped in and replaced him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam shifted on the big bench seat, the worn material soft under her bottom. The faint hint of hay tickled her nose, and she resisted the urge to turn around to hunt down the forgotten bale. The old truck was frill-free except for the glaring addition of an upgraded stereo system.

  “When are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked Dylan.

  He glanced at her, his smile widening in the darkened cab before he returned his focus to the highway. “When we get there.”

  Right. She tucked her hands beneath her legs to keep from fidgeting. Every doubt she’d had about accepting his invitation came back to twist her nerves into a jumbled mess with her emotions. “I’m better with a plan,” she muttered at the
side window.

  His chuckle carried over the rolling notes of the country song that floated out of the speakers. “You play every game without one.”

  “No, I don’t.” She studied his profile, admiring the way the passing lights played over the angles of his face. “My plan every game is to score or set someone else up to score.”

  “Fair enough.” Her eyes went to his dimple, the little divot that showed up to tease her with its appearance of innocence. “How about you just trust me to have your back on this play?”

  “If you’re at my back, shouldn’t I know where we’re heading?”

  “Oh my God. Would you give it up?”

  Her snort of laughter was short and abrupt. “I already did that.” She shot him a side glance, her smirk releasing some of her nerves.

  He rubbed a hand over his mouth, capturing his snickers in his palm. “See? It was you who brought up the subject this time.”

  “What subject?”

  “Never mind.” He checked his mirror and took the exit ramp off the highway. “It’s too early to be thinking about that.”

  “Hockey?” She frowned, being deliberately obtuse. “Isn’t that all you think about?”

  “Hardly,” he scoffed. He tilted the rim of his cowboy hat up and shot a smoldering glance over her. “You should know that.”

  She swallowed and immediately retreated. Her response to him was growing too strong and she had no idea how to combat it. Or if she wanted to anymore.

  She shifted her attention to their surroundings when he pulled into a full parking lot in front of a large brick building with a fake wood front. A neon cowboy hat was anchored on the corner of the Cowboy Bar sign mounted over the doors. A wooden porch ran the length of the building to finish off the old western vibe.

  “You brought me to a country-and-western bar?” She’d heard of the place but had never been there. Had never had a reason to come there.

  “Sure thing, darlin’.” He winked at her as he turned off the engine.

  The words and drawl rang so false, she cringed. “That has got to stop,” she insisted.

  “What?”

  “That…” she waved a hand at him, “fake southern thing. Not with me. I’m not one of your darlin’s, nor will I ever be.” The thought of being another of his nameless darlin’s sent a repulsive shiver through her.

  His face went serious, the charming smile drifting away. “No. You’re not.”

  She swallowed and tried to tear her eyes away from his but couldn’t. He lifted his hand and ran his knuckles down her cheek in that oh-so-light touch that left a shimmering trail of tingles in its wake.

  He jerked around and thrust his door open, the cold waft of air rushing in to break her out of her trance. What am I doing?

  She shoved out of his old truck and met him at the front. His hand was extended, and she reached for it without thought. He laced his fingers with hers, which had her pulse skipping into an erratic beat that teetered between excitement and unease. His palm was warm against hers, solid and comforting. She was acutely aware of the way it fit with hers. Aware of him.

  The music reached her before he opened the door. The upbeat song carried a note that vibrated into her when they stepped inside. Her smile spread into a full grin when she saw the stage and the large dance floor packed with people simultaneously executing a set of steps in long lines.

  He led her to a table off to the side and helped her remove her coat before he held her chair out for her. The actions were so natural they didn’t come across as moves, and she recognized it for what it was—his southern breeding shining through.

  He hung their coats off the back of a chair and took the seat next to her. His denim shirt and jeans worked with his hat and he wore the cowboy look with ease.

  He leaned toward her to be heard over the music. “I hear the steak is great.”

  “You’ve never been here?”

  “Nope.” He glanced around. “Never had anyone I wanted to dance with.”

  Any hunger she might’ve had fled at those words. She couldn’t swallow past the clump of nerves lodged in her throat. “I don’t dance,” she managed to say.

  His grin grew in increments that let her catch every detail as he took hold of her unintentional challenge. The green seemed to weave through his eyes to brighten them, his dimple deepened and her heart did a strange little flip that left her breathless. “Then I’ll have to teach you.”

  The thought of being pressed close to him as he led her around the dance floor had her remembering the last time he was pressed against her, naked in the shower. A wave of heat rushed up her chest and over her face before she could squelch the thought. The waitress managed a timely arrival to take their order, and Sam took a deep, calming breath while Dylan was distracted.

  “Your last two games have been great,” she said after they’d ordered a couple of appetizers and beers. After all, they were supposed to be here to discuss the improvements he’d made in his game before the midseason break. “You played aggressive and without hesitation while being aware of what was happening around you.” Her smile was real and full of admiration for the quick turnaround in his game. “It was incredible to watch.”

  He ducked his head. “It was incredible to play.”

  “Tell me about it.” They’d shifted closer in order to hear. The heat seemed to transfer from his leg into hers where they braced against each other. The awareness of it prickled over her side in that now familiar sensation. “What’d you change?”

  He shot her a conspiratorial glance. “I stopped thinking and just played.” He nudged her leg. “I trusted my instincts and stopped second-guessing the plays.”

  “And?”

  “And—” he shrugged, “—it worked.”

  She tipped her head back and laughed at the simplified explanation. She couldn’t argue with it though. Sometimes things just worked. “I’m glad.”

  He shot her a wink. “Me too.” He sat back when the waitress returned with their beer. He tipped his bottle to her. “Cheers. And thank you again for the help.”

  She clinked her bottle to his. “It’s been my pleasure, Mr. Rylie.”

  He lifted a brow, his bottle suspended inches from his lips. “Mr. Rylie?”

  “It’s better than Pretty Boy.”

  He inclined his head. “Maybe…Samantha.”

  “Sam,” she insisted. “Everyone calls me Sam but you. Why?”

  His smile grew as he studied her. “Sam is the woman who kicks ass on the ice and fights for everything she’s achieved.” His expression softened somehow and he reached over to thread his fingers with hers. “That’s a pretty awesome person, but I think Samantha’s even better. She’s just like Sam but has this kind and vulnerable side too that’s really nice when you let her out.”

  She gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing. Her heart did a stutter step and she ducked her head to get away from his penetrating gaze. One that managed to see too much. “You think so?” she asked, trying to keep her tone light. His hand was warm around hers. Secure. “I must be getting too soft around you.”

  “I like it.” He squeezed her hand, his smile a gentle curl that wound around her in another band of security that urged her to trust him. Trust this. What was so obviously growing between them.

  She wanted to, but…

  Their food came, and she picked at it while she watched the dancers, avoiding his knowing gaze. The music shifted over various songs that all seemed to have their own intricate steps everyone somehow knew. It reminded her of her own steps and plans. Ones that took her away from here.

  “What are we doing?” she asked him, giving up on the food. She forced a note of frustration into her clipped words to cover the sadness that scored her throat. He was one more thing she couldn’t have. “There’s no future for us. I’m leaving in a few months, and your life is all hockey. Something I’m trying hard to not resent but still haven’t mastered.” She wiped her hands on her napkin and focused on that ins
tead of the regrets that swirled in her stomach.

  He waited for her to look at him again, the deep copper of his eyes dark with intent. “What exactly do you resent? My pro career, or my dedication to the sport?”

  She cringed at the hard hit of truth. She’d been right. It sounded as petty and bitter when said out loud as it had in her head. “Both probably.” There was no point in avoiding it when he needed to see how hopeless they were.

  “And you’re leaving why?” His tone stayed neutral, but he shoved his plate away and turned to face her better.

  “School.” She straightened her shoulders, certain of her path. “The master’s program I want is in California.”

  “Sports psychology. Right?”

  “Yes.” It touched her that he remembered, which was silly.

  He narrowed his eyes, shifting closer. “And that’s what you really want to be?”

  “Yes. It’s my goal,” she simply said. “The one I’m focused on now.”

  He frowned. “Why sports psychology?”

  “It digs into a facet of the game that’s the most ignored but is just as critical.” She had that answer down pat.

  “Why not coaching?” And there was the damn question that wouldn’t go away. “You’re a natural at it.”

  A tinge of that damn bitterness wove in to sour the beer she’d just swallowed. “So Dylan,” she said with a canned smile. “What are your plans for the future?” Turnaround was fair play.

  “You know this.” The honest charm in his smile helped to lighten the mood. “To get my new multi-year contract that sets up the rest of my career, then play for as long as I can. That’s why I wanted your help. I have to be at my best to get that big contract from the Glaciers.”

  She got it. Understood exactly where he was coming from. Everyone wanted a better deal, no matter what his or her profession was. It was a mark of success and went with the drive to better oneself.