There had been a rumor that the upper office was talking about sending Lory back down to the Bombers. The only problem with that was there wasn't really anyone else to call up. There had been more rumors about a trade that might be in the works but Caleb didn't believe those, either. No way in hell would the Banners bring Corbin Gauthier back, not if half of what Caleb had heard was true.
He still didn't know the whole story. Nobody did, not that he knew of. At least, if they did, they weren't talking. All Caleb knew was that something had happened a decade ago, something that had left bad blood between Ian Donovan and the goalie. And considering Donovan was now the Banners' head coach…
Yeah. No way would that trade happen. They'd have to make-do with Connelly and Lory until something else came up. Luke only had maybe another year or two left to play. The man was somewhere in his early thirties now, and every year he'd been playing was starting to show. Was that what his problem was? His body giving out, telling him he didn't have much longer to play?
And fuck, wouldn't that just suck? Caleb couldn't imagine life without hockey. Hell, he couldn't even remember life before hockey. Which was why being on the sidelines with this fucking ankle had nearly pushed him to the brink of insanity. He wasn't used to being on the sidelines.
For anything.
Which was why he needed a distraction. Something else to focus on instead of the lingering fear that he'd be a scratch for at least one more game. Something to take his mind off the irrational fear that even though the break had been relatively clean and minor, his game might never be the same as it was before.
He skated back and forth, easing into it, finding the rhythm that had come so naturally to his body as he was growing up. Yeah, he definitely needed a distraction—from the twinge in his ankle, from the fear that kept nagging at him, from the doubts that tried to eat away at his confidence.
The corners of his mouth twitched in a lopsided grin as the perfect distraction popped into his mind: a pair of large brown eyes fringed in long, dark lashes. Thick blonde hair that begged a man to plunge his hands into their silky strands. A full, pouty mouth, perfect for—
He nearly tripped, caught himself at the last minute. Yeah, that mouth was perfect—until it opened up and words tumbled from it. Christ, that woman was nothing more than one big contradiction after another. A body designed for every male fantasy and an attitude designed to slice a man off at the knees.
Or maybe a little higher.
Caleb mentally winced at the thought, damn near reached down to adjust his cup against the phantom pain. Shannon Wiley was nothing like he had imagined. Not even close.
And maybe she was just the distraction he needed. Yeah, asking her to join the guys at the Maypole last week had been nothing more than pure impulse. And yeah, he had definitely entertained the idea of smooth talking her straight into his bed. Then Tay-Tay had to open her big mouth and warn the other woman off.
Except that hadn't stopped Shannon from showing up. It also hadn't stopped her from putting him in his place by declaring straight out that she wasn't going to sleep with him.
Almost like she was throwing out a challenge.
He'd thought about smooth talking her, changing her mind. It wouldn't be hard—he could tell she was attracted to him. But he hadn't, which surprised him. He always rose to a challenge—in more ways than one—but something told him that if he had tried, that would have been it. Yeah, he might have succeeded, but it would have been nothing more than a conquest, one he would have taken no joy in.
And that surprised him, too—the fact that he wanted more than just another easy conquest. He'd taken a gamble and backed off, deciding to treat her like she was one of the guys—when she was anything but.
Then he'd completely fucked up and failed to do any follow-through. Hadn't asked for her number, hadn't made plans to see her again. He'd simply let her leave with nothing more than a casual see you around.
Maybe it was time to rectify that.
Caleb slid to a stop as the whistle blew again. He bent over, bracing the stick against his legs and breathing in stale, frigid air, pulling it deep into his lungs and holding it.
The sound of steps shuffling along the ice pierced his thoughts. From the corner of his eye, he saw a pair of legs encased in blue track pants come closer. He took another deep breath and straightened, watched as Coach Donovan approached him. The man's dark eyes showed no emotion, gave nothing away as they studied him for seconds that stretched into one agonizing minute then another.
Coach Donovan rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth then exhaled, his breath escaping in a small puff. "How's the ankle?"
"Fine."
"Fine, huh?" His eyes darted to Caleb's left foot then shot back up. "Is that why you're still favoring it?"
"I'm not—"
"Bullshit."
Caleb's heart slammed into his chest as dread swept through him. He ground his back teeth together, felt the muscle twitch in his jaw. "It's fine, Coach. I'm ready."
Donovan just stared at him, his gaze giving nothing away. Then he shook his head, the motion brief and final. "Not yet. Another few days—"
"I'm ready now, Coach."
A flash of emotion sparked in man's eyes. "You really want to risk fucking it up permanently? Because that's what'll happen if you go out there before you're ready. I know you, Johnson. You go out there now, you'll push it. You'll showboat and fuck it up again—worse this time. Is that what you want?"
Caleb opened his mouth to argue, to tell Donovan he was wrong, that he wouldn't screw it up, that he wouldn't push it. Something in the coach's eyes stopped him and he snapped his mouth closed and slowly shook his head.
Donovan nodded, rubbed his hand across his mouth again and glanced around before meeting Caleb's gaze once more. "I want you back on the ice as much as you want to be there, Johnson. But I want you there at one hundred percent. Let's give it a few more days. If Doc gives you the go-ahead on Friday, I'll start you on Saturday."
Caleb wanted to argue. Hell, he wanted to do more than argue—he wanted to kick and scream and slam his stick against the boards like a two-year-old losing his shit. But he didn't do any of that, not when he knew it wouldn't help. Saturday. That was four days away. Four days wouldn't make that much difference, not in the long run.
Four days.
Who the fuck was he kidding? Four days would kill him.
He watched Coach Donovan shuffle away, knowing there was nothing he could do to change the man's mind.
Four days.
He had to find something to take his mind off the extended wait. Now, before he went totally insane.
And he knew the perfect distraction. What the hell. It wasn't like he had anything to lose.
Not that he would. He never lost, not once he put his mind to something.
Chapter Four
Breathe.
Shannon closed her eyes and repeated the word.
Breathe.
In. Out. Slow and steady. Finding her center. Mentally preparing herself.
Just like she did before every game.
Only this wasn't a game. This wasn't even practice. Practice was over, had been for the last ten minutes. She stood at the edge of the ice, sweat running in little rivers down the side of her face and trickling between breasts that were bound and smashed by layers of gear. She growled, the sound low and muted, and pressed the heel of one hand against her chest to stop the annoying trickle. Then she opened her eyes and stared at Charles Dawson, the team's PR Director.
"You're worrying too much, Chuckie. Relax. I got this."
He pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath, the words barely audible in the chilled air of the rink. Then he blew out a quick breath and looked up at Shannon, his eyes filled with warning.
"Do not mess this up. Please."
Shannon started to roll her eyes then caught herself at the last second, figuring Chuckie would only worry more if he saw it. She reached out i
nstead and tapped him on the shoulder—maybe a little harder than she had planned because he briefly staggered then narrowed his eyes at her.
"This is a bad idea." He shook his head and looked around, like he was seeking divine intervention. "I'll cancel the interview. Or maybe I can get Dani to do it instead."
Anger and disappointment rolled in Shannon's gut. Was she really that bad? Did Chuckie really think she'd make a mess of things? Yeah, he really did. Why else would he be searching around with that look of desperation on his face?
Maybe she wasn't the most articulate player on the team. She knew that, knew that sometimes her mouth got carried away before her brain totally engaged. Okay, maybe it was more than just sometimes. But she was trying, she really was. Last week at the autograph session was a perfect example: she hadn't slipped up and cussed at all. Well, not really, not in front of the fans. That was what counted, right?
Shouldn't Chuckie give her the tiniest bit of credit for that, at least? She curled her gloved hand around the stick and swallowed back the disappointment, hiding it behind a forced smile.
"Dani can't do it, she's busy." Not really, but since she was in the locker room already, Chuckie didn't know that. "And you can't reschedule because that would look bad. You don't want to look bad, do you?"
"Shannon—"
"Come on, Chuckie. A little faith wouldn't exactly be misplaced, you know."
He exhaled again, the sound conveying every single doubt he had—as if seeing it in his eyes wasn't enough. "You're positive you won't screw this up?"
Shannon nodded. "Abso-fucking-lutely."
Chuckie narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, one long finger pointing at her. "That. That right there is what I'm talking about."
"What?"
"You don't even realize it, do you?"
Shannon shifted her weight from one foot to the other and looked around, wondering what she was missing. "Realize what?"
"Shannon, you need to stop and think before you speak. One little slip-up like that will be enough to undo everything we've accomplished so far."
She almost opened her mouth to ask exactly what they'd accomplished, then changed her mind at the last second. Chuckie had been facing an uphill battle from the start. Hell, they all had, considering that the league was brand new and nobody knew what to expect of a not-quite-semi-pro women's hockey league in its inaugural year. They still didn't, not really. But Chuckie was doing his best, and so was the Blades' owner, James Murphy.
Which meant Shannon had to do her best too, and not just when she was in the net.
She tossed another wink in Chuckie's direction then headed off the ice before he could change his mind, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. Maybe nerves was the wrong word—she wasn't nervous, not exactly. Anxious, maybe. Or maybe cautious was a better word. This was a big deal for her and in some way, she understood why Chuckie was worried. That one television interview Taylor had done at the start of the season had seriously backfired—on everyone. That still had to be weighing on Chuckie's mind.
But this wasn't a television interview—thank God, because Shannon didn't think she could handle that, not yet. This was just a sit-down interview with TR Meyers, the woman who had done that abso-fucking-lutely wonderful piece on Sammie a few weeks ago. Shannon could handle that.
She hoped.
She shrugged out of her gear, piling pads and helmet and stick off to the side. She tugged her hair from the ponytail then ran her fingers over her damp scalp, sighing in relief. Hopefully TR wouldn't want to take any pictures, at least not before Shannon had a chance to shower because yeah, yuck.
One last deep breath, then she made her way over to the metal bleachers where TR was sitting. Shannon hesitated when she saw Gordon "Mac" MacGregor standing there talking to the reporter, afraid of interrupting. Mac was a friend of Sammie's soon-to-be non-ex, a former military something-or-other. Shannon had no idea that the man knew the reporter, was surprised to even see him here. Or maybe not, considering Jon was here with Sammie's daughter, Clare.
Which would make her Jon's daughter, too. Duh.
She waited for a few minutes, shifting her weight from one skate to the other as the chilled air of the rink started to seep through her sweat-soaked shirt and hair. If the two of them kept talking for much longer, she'd have to go back and grab her sweatshirt. She had no idea what they were discussing but they both looked intense. At least, Mac did—which meant nothing because his scarred face always looked intense.
Shannon finally cleared her throat, the loud sound echoing around her. TR and Mac both looked over at her. Moisture filled TR's pale eyes and she reached up to brush at them. Mac fixed Shannon with a penetrating stare made more intense from the reflection of the overhead lights. Then he blinked, all intensity disappearing as his ravaged face broke into a smile that transformed his features into something only marginally softer.
"I didn't mean to interrupt—"
"You're good." His voice was gruff, whether from impatience or as a result of his injuries, Shannon wasn't sure. He nodded in her direction, just the briefest of acknowledgments, then turned back to TR. "Just don't be stupid."
Shannon watched him walk away then turned back to the other woman. "Everything okay? We need to reschedule this or something?"
"No, of course not." The woman cleared her throat then shifted on the bench. She pushed her dark hair from her face then patted the bench next to her. "Have a seat."
Shannon dropped onto the bench, shifted once or twice to get comfortable, not sure how she should sit, or if it even made any difference. She finally gave up and made herself comfortable: feet and legs spread apart, slightly bent over with her elbows braced on her knees. "So…everything's good?"
"Yeah, fine."
"You sure?" She looked over her shoulder, watching Mac as he leaned closer to Jon, the two men in deep conversation. "Need me to go kick his ass or something?"
A short burst of laughter escaped the other woman. "No, it's all good. He was just, um, helping me with something."
Shannon turned back to TR, one eyebrow raised in surprise. "By telling you not to be stupid?"
Another burst of laughter, this one a little sadder somehow. "Long story." TR reached into the bag by her feet and pulled out her phone. Her fingers flew across the screen for a few seconds then she placed the phone on the bench between them. Shannon glanced down at it then nearly froze.
"You're, uh, you're recording this?"
"Yeah." TR looked up from the notepad resting on her knee. "I always record interviews. You don't mind, do you?"
"Uh—" Shannon looked away from the phone and tried to swallow back her anxiety. The thought that every single word coming out of her mouth would be recorded and stored somewhere in a virtual cloud for all eternity kind of terrified her but it wasn't like she could back out now, not after her talk with Chuckie. "Uh, no. No, it's fine."
"You don't have to look so nervous. It's just another way to take notes so I can refer back later. Just relax and—"
"So. Question." Shannon raised her hand, just like one of Sammie's kindergarten students would. She realized what she was doing and quickly dropped her arm. "If I, uh, slip and say something I shouldn't—are you going to print it and make me look like a total ass? Because I really don't want to look like an ass. Chuckie would have a fucking fit and—yeah, like that. Please don't print that."
TR watched her for a long minute, all humor gone from her eyes. She was serious now. Intent. Seeing too much. Shannon squirmed on the bench but refused to look away, no matter how much she wanted to.
TR reached between them and clicked the recording app, stopping it. Then she leaned back, a small smile on her full lips. "My job isn't to make you—or anyone else, for that matter—look bad. I want to showcase the team. The players. You. I want the readers to get to know everyone, to let them see the heart and soul of each of you. To get them excited and interested. Painting any of you in a bad light would have the opposite effect, now
wouldn't it?"
"Yeah but—"
"You're thinking of the television interview with Taylor LeBlanc." It was a statement, not a question. But Shannon answered anyway.
"Pretty much, yeah. That was a fu—" She stopped, looked away and cleared her throat. "That was a disaster."
"It wasn't the best piece around, no. It's also not my style."
"Okay." Did Shannon believe her? Maybe, maybe not. All she had to go on was the other article TR had done, the one featuring Sammie—which had been pretty damn good.
She blew out a deep breath then slowly nodded. "Okay, cool. So—how does this work? You ask me some questions, I answer. You clean it up and print it?"
"Yes and no. I like to dig a little deeper, learn about the real person. Try to capture their personality and make it shine. Think more human interest than exposé."
Human interest? Shannon almost laughed. Holy shit, what had she gotten herself into? Yeah, she was human—duh. But interesting? Not hardly, not in her opinion.
"Are you still up for it?"
"Yeah, sure. Shoot."
TR laughed, the sound light, then settled more comfortably on the bench. She crossed one long denim-clad leg over the other, her booted foot gently swinging. "How long have you been playing hockey?"
Shannon sighed in relief. That question was an easy one. If they were all like this, she'd ace the entire interview. "Since I was six."
TR nodded, her pen poised against the pad—unmoving. Shannon frowned, wondering why the woman wasn't writing anything down.
"Um, that would mean I've been playing for seventeen years." She stared at the unmoving pen, her breath held as she waited for it to move. Still nothing. She glanced at the other woman then reached out and tapped the tip of her finger against the blank notepad. "Are you going to write that down?"
A ghost of a smile hovered around the other woman's mouth as she shook her head. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm waiting for more."
"More what? You asked. I answered. What more do you want?"
Playing Hard_A Chesapeake Blades Hockey Romance Page 3
