by Lynda Aicher
He dumped the ice pack when he returned to the locker room. The space was quiet now, only a few guys loitering around. With a rare three days off between games, most of the guys took the extra day as a chance to be with family or simply vegetate. Eighty games in a season meant they played almost constantly for seven months straight. With only one week left in the regular season, everyone was tired.
He stuffed his things in his bag and was ready to leave when Feeney bounded into the room.
“Hey, Cowboy,” he boomed. “We were just heading out for food. You coming?”
Damn. He was tired. But he had a grin in place when he faced his friend. “Where’re you going?”
“Bart’s.”
His grimace almost made it to his face before he caught himself. None of the guys had any clue as to why he’d avoided the place since January. However, it was a better option than going home to his empty house. “Great. I’ll meet you there.”
Staying integrated with the team was part of keeping himself visible. Valued. Getting traded to another team came with a set of challenges and an end result that could be worse for him.
Truth was, he liked the Glaciers. His teammates, the management, coaches, fans—overall, it was good. He’d made a place here and he wasn’t ready to move on.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One long inhale had that ice scent flooding Sam’s senses. Damn. She bit her lip and shoved the rush of emotion aside. Coach O’s email last night had shocked and numbed her. She had no idea why he’d invited her, but she couldn’t stay away once she’d read the offer.
Dylan was getting back on the ice for the first time.
She hung back though, stayed in the shadows on the opposite side of the rink away from the box full of men. It would be best for both of them if he never knew she was there.
Coach O was in the box, along with the team trainer and the development manager. She recognized Dylan’s physical therapist too, along with Jeff. It was a full stack of pressure and expectation she didn’t need to add to.
She barely noticed the other men though after Dylan stepped out of the tunnel. Her racing pulse kicked into high at the first real sight of him since she’d left his house. The shot to her heart had her gasping in a breath. The TV glimpses of him sitting in the Glaciers’ suite during home games were never long enough to satisfy her. Snippets of his face half-hidden beneath his cowboy hat only led to more questions.
How was he? Was his injury healing correctly? Did he miss her even half as much as she did him?
His hair was in need of a cut, so the dark strands fell across his brow in a rakish disregard that seemed to sharpen the line of his jaw even from her distance. His face was bright with excitement as he exchanged greetings she couldn’t define outside of the varying timbre and tones of the men.
“Let’s do this,” Dylan boomed, face beaming, and her heart did a full flip in her chest. His dimple popped on his cheek and his white long-sleeved T-shirt was snug enough to show the muscles beneath, ones she had no problem remembering. Avoiding him clearly hadn’t lessened his effect on her.
Seconds later he was stepping onto the ice. He glided for a short distance then pushed off with his good leg. Another glide, and the trainer, along with the therapist, followed him onto the ice.
“How’s it feel?” the man asked, his question drifting over the ice. “Everything good?”
She studied Dylan’s face for any sign of pain or problems. Chances were he wouldn’t admit it if there was something wrong.
Dylan wet his lips, looking up. His face was full of anticipation. “So far.” He lifted his chin up, eyes closing. The air picked at his bangs to lift them off his forehead. “It feels fantastic.”
A jab of envy wilted a bit of her excitement for him. The Gophers’ season had ended and with that her time on the ice and the team. Her resentment had dwindled, but that pesky nudge of jealousy continued to jab her when she wasn’t prepared.
He leaned forward and pushed off with his right leg, the motion cautious but fluid. With his hands loose at his sides, he took a few more strides, alternating legs in a slow, steady pace.
The straight cut of his black sweats showed the full lift and extension of his legs. The strength in his lower body was clearly evident, and she couldn’t help admiring the rounded firmness of his ass and the projected power in every push and extension.
His brows were drawn low, his face a study in concentration.
“Ready for more?”
He gave a slow nod to the trainer’s question, and she cheered silently. He’d worked so hard to get back.
He took a few more easy strides. The wrinkles faded from his brow. He answered, but it was lost across the distance. So was the trainer’s response except for the word “crossovers.”
The three were heading clockwise around the rink so Dylan’s good leg would be doing the largest outward lateral movement.
They hit the curve and he leaned forward, knees bending to get the needed angle. She caught a slight grimace that disappeared almost immediately as his right leg took his weight. For the most part though, the maneuver was textbook.
There was another exchange between the men, and she cursed the fact that she couldn’t hear them. How was he feeling? Did his hip hurt?
He smiled, and she sucked in a breath as he headed toward her hidden spot. “I’m good. Really. It feels fantastic.” A light was in his eyes that even she could spot as he drifted by, unaware of her. She breathed through the tightening in her chest. His love for hockey had never been more obvious to her. Whether he took everything he had for granted or not, he played this game because he had to. She almost choked on the understanding.
They headed diagonally across the ice, past the men on the bench. She could only imagine how the weight of their scrutiny felt on Dylan.
Again, she watched for signals when he leaned into the curve and started his crossovers. The force and extension on his injured hip would be greater in this direction.
His grimace lasted longer this time. His lips pulled into a tight line, hands fisted behind his back where he held them. In true speed skater’s form, he powered through without a hitch, picking up speed through the turn.
He straightened, hands going to his hips as he shook out his right leg. She bit her tongue on the urge to rush out there and ask if he was all right. There was bound to be some pain and soreness this first time out.
“Ready for the next thing?”
His grin was back in place when he looked at the trainer. “Bring it on.”
“Don’t push it if it’s hurting.”
“It’s fine.” He dropped into a lunge, stretching the front of his right hip for a moment. “Trust me.”
She winced at the sudden punch to her chest. She’d tried to do that. Believed in his intentions. But he hadn’t lied to her or promised anything either. His hockey goal had always been up front and center, just like her school goal.
Two easy steps, and he was gliding backward. For a defenseman, this was critical. A large part of his game was played this way. Again, his feet moved naturally, his strokes even.
He glanced over his shoulder and executed a few crossovers with a grace that had her marveling at his recovery. Outside of a few winces, he appeared to be well on his way to getting back in the game.
He did a few more footwork drills before Coach O called him over. Dylan was positively beaming when he came to a stop at the bench. Cheeks rosy, grin stunning. Sam sucked in another stifled breath and swallowed back the ache in her throat.
He said something to Doc, who’d joined them at some point, and shook his hand. Dylan rubbed the front of his hip, head shaking. There was more discussion. She caught bits of the conversation dealing with his ice time, recovery, return to play. Dylan nodded through most of it, his profile showing the determined set of his brow.
He stepped into the box as Doc left and Jeff slapped him on the back, obviously satisfied with Dylan. She should go now. Only she couldn’t make herself
leave when he was still out there. She soaked him up, storing the images in case they were her last live ones.
Coach gripped Dylan’s shoulder as he passed him. He leaned into Dylan, pointed toward her hidden spot before he stepped out of the box after the rest of the men. Flight mode kicked into hyper-drive when Dylan slowly turned to stare across the rink. She was still in the shadows, yet his gaze seemed to strip it away to leave her exposed.
The men’s voices diminished as they disappeared down the tunnel until eventually silence settled over the vast space. She had a moment of indecision, a hesitation before he was stepping onto the ice, headed her way. Panic burned over her skin, flaring tight in her chest with each stride that brought him closer.
She could still run. Turn away and be out of the tunnel before he could stop her. And that would be weak of her. Cowardly when there was nothing to fear.
Except refracturing her barely mended heart.
He stopped at the boards, his eyes holding hers as she stepped into the open. That strange awareness prickled over her skin the closer she drew to him. He looked even better now. Cheeks flushed, hair messed and his intense copper eyes staring down at her.
“You’re here,” Dylan finally said. The high note that’d carried his earlier excitement was gone now. He scanned her, up and down in an almost ravenous appraisal that lit up every nerve within her.
“Coach O invited me,” she said. His brows lowered a notch, sending a bolt of anxiety to churn in her stomach. “I wanted to see how you were.” Truth.
“I’m fine.” His lips tilted in a small smile that withheld his dimple, and she suddenly wanted to see it again. Wondered if she ever would. “Almost back to normal.”
What was he talking about? She jerked her brain back to the conversation. The one that was polite but said nothing. “I saw that.” She wet her lips and motioned toward the ice. “You looked good.” Marvelous. Fantastic. Amazing. She held those words back, though. They wouldn’t help.
His hands were braced on his hips and he blew out a long breath before he unlatched the rink door and stepped down to the mat, right in front of her. He was in her space and she should back up, give him room, only she couldn’t seem to move. Everything seemed frozen, including her breath, which refused to leave her lungs.
His stare drilled into her, searched her out and left her aching for the heat in his eyes. She somehow found enough air to ask, “What?”
His skates made him even taller so he appeared to loom over her. The air vibrated with energy that throbbed over her and left her trembling. She caught the desire in his eyes right before he cupped her face and closed his mouth over hers.
Her moan was instantaneous. She opened to him just as fast. She wanted this. Him. Damn it. She tried to push in to him but he held her firm. Instead of the hard assault she could handle, he kept his touch light, the kiss gentle.
The tears welled up so fast she squeezed her eyes closed to hold them in. Every soft lick and swipe of his tongue cracked her heart a little more. She clung to his waist, positive she’d crumple to the ground if he let go.
A hint of spearmint teased her taste buds, blending with the warm flavor of him. She’d missed that. Missed so much about him. His scent, his touch.
“Hey, Dylan.” Jeff’s voice crashed through the moment to rip them apart. “Can you come to Coach O’s office as soon as you get your skates off?”
Dylan stared at her, breath heavy. From inches away she caught everything that flashed through his eyes. Desire, regret, hurt that mirrored her own.
“Sure,” he called out, gaze never leaving her. “I’ll be right there.”
She couldn’t break his hold even though it wasn’t physically strong. She was stuck there, trapped by her own desire and the load of doubts and wants that refused to go away.
He swiped his thumb over her bottom lip, tracking the movement. “That,” he whispered. “I wanted to do that.”
He was gone before she could stutter a response. “Me…me too,” she said to herself. She watched as he glided over the ice and retreated down the far tunnel, unable to move. He didn’t spare a glance back before he was gone from her sight, the creak of the locker room door carrying to her in a high wail from deep in the far tunnel.
She fisted her trembling hands, eyes closing as she traced her tongue over the path that his thumb had scorched into her lower lip. Doubts, stronger than ever, pummeled her. Her chest ached with the need for air and she gulped in a breath. It didn’t help.
This couldn’t work no matter how it felt. She had plans. A goal, just like he did.
She had to remember that. It was important.
Right?
She spun around and hustled out of the arena before she could change her mind. It was so tempting to give in and drop everything she’d laid out for herself. And what would that get her if she did it for him?
Would she end up alone six months later and mad at what she’d sacrificed? She deserved her dreams too. The fact that they might be shifting was a big possibility. And obtaining everything she really wanted had never worked out for her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jeff slid into the booth across from Dylan, eyes darting around the quiet restaurant as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and shook out his sleeves. He leaned back, wide smile in place when his attention settled on Dylan. “You ready to talk numbers?”
Jesus Christ, he almost shouted. Yes! Yes, I’m ready to talk numbers. Somehow, he managed to contain the raging ball of nerves and energy festering within him and gave a short “Sure.”
“Good.” Jeff braced his arms on the table, his business face dropping into place. “Before we hash out what the Glaciers gave me, I want to pass something by you.” He made another check of their surroundings, despite the closest table with people being on the other side of the room.
Shit. Dylan’s poker face was firmly in place though. “Sure. What is it?” After all, it wasn’t like he’d been waiting months to get the Glaciers deal. Worked his ass off in rehab and training to back on the ice three weeks faster than first predicted. Let’s make me wait longer to know if it was all worth it.
“I heard through some sources that another team would be interested in talking to you.” He lifted a brow, a canary-eating smile overtaking his face. “A southern team.”
Dylan’s short chuckle was only part amusement. He’d bitched more than once to Jeff about the damn cold. Now was when he wanted to talk about moving to another team? Speculate, really. “I’m restricted. You know what kind of crap a move like that gets. Wait. Fuck.” He sat up, face dropping with his stomach as his thoughts raced forward. “Did the Glaciers pass or cough up a shitty offer? Is there a trade in the works? Is this a roundabout way of warning me of that?” What the fuck?
“No,” Jeff insisted, sitting up. “God, no.” He scowled, his brows dropping to hover over his eyes. “I’m worth every penny you pay me and more. Shit. I got you a smoking deal.” The canary grin returned. “One that could be topped if we played it right. We could hold out and get an offer sheet from another team. Get the Glaciers to match it or lose you.”
Dylan gave in and scrubbed his face, no longer caring what the other man thought. The guy worked for him, and he was tired of the games. “Just tell me the Glaciers’ deal.” He’d rather go to arbitration than use that kind of tactic to get a better contract.
Jeff pulled a folder from his briefcase and set it on the table. He tapped the file, nodding. “This is what we worked the last six years to achieve.” He opened the file, grin spreading. “How does six years, twenty-five-point-two mill sound?”
Dylan slumped back, stunned. An odd sense of disbelief and relief merged into a distorted mix that spun in his head. “Fuck. That’s fantastic.” His leg bounced, the excitement building past the mental stall. “How?” Salary caps were strict across the league. To get that kind of deal mathematically meant other players were moving off the roster.
Jeff sniffed, cocked his head, shrugged. “Does it m
atter? You’re in, and that’s all that counts. Congrats.”
It was a callous approach but true. In the end, every player was out for himself when it came to contracts and spots. Damn. His pulse raised with the adrenaline rush charging through his system. This was it. Wow.
Jeff walked through the rest of the details that went with every contract. There were always conditions around that kind of money. Dylan listened, but a lot of it passed in and out of his mind without sticking. He’d read it all later, before he signed. Now, he was basking in the rush.
“So,” Jeff said once he’d finished outlining the rest of the contract. “What do you think?”
“It’s fucking great.” Dylan stuck out his hand, shaking Jeff’s. “Thanks. I was worried this wouldn’t come through after my injury.”
“Which is why I did some sniffing around,” Jeff said. “That’s my job. I watch your back so you can skate.”
Dylan nodded, conceding the point even though he wasn’t so certain about the man watching his back.
“This other team then.” Jeff made another glance around. He’d told the hostess they wanted to be left alone and tipped her nicely to ensure it, but he was still overly cautious. “Actually, there’s more than one. I might be able to get a match or raise this offer.” He lifted a brow, waiting. “This is the best deal I could get right now. But if you sign a better offer sheet from another team, the Glaciers have to match it or lose you.”
A better offer? Dylan had been expecting a bridge deal that would take him to the end of his league-required seven years as a restricted free agent. He understood that it was all part of the negotiation dance his agent managed every day. This was edging on the sleazy side though and sat poorly in his gut. Making a move like that with an offer this nice would more than likely put a bad stamp on his name within the league. One he didn’t want.
He was good. He liked the Glaciers and was ready to stay—cold weather and all. The organization had stuck by him through his injury, and he really liked the team. Pushing them for more wasn’t needed.
