Dirty Play (A Nolan Brothers Series Novel ~ Book 3)

by Amy Olle

  “Gentlemen, this is Ms. Callahan. Ms. Callahan, this is your team captain, Mr. Marleau, and Misters Tierney and Donovan.”

  Haven offered a weak smile, which faltered when the elevator doors lurched.

  One of the men’s massive arms came out to block the elevator doors from closing. “Going up, Ms. Callahan?”

  On wobbly legs, Haven stepped inside the steel trap.

  Mel punched the number to the third floor and the heavy doors closed them in. “How are we doing today, boys?”

  One man turned a charmer’s smile on Mel. “Better, now that we’ve bumped into you.”

  Mel snorted.

  The man beside Haven shifted and his arm brushed against her shoulder. An innocent touch that sucked the remaining oxygen from Haven’s lungs.

  Dark memories spiraled through her.

  She shuffled closer to Mel, longing for her familiar turf behind the fortress of a bar. There, she wielded the power in the bottle of alcohol in her hand. She was in control.

  Here? Not so much.

  The elevator cart jerked to a stop. The doors pulled open and Haven shot from the enclosure like a cork from the champagne bottle.

  Mel breezed past her and set off across the bustling reception area. “Later, boys.”

  The men headed in the opposite direction from Mel.

  “This way, Ms. Callahan.”

  Haven scurried after Mel, who led her down a long corridor lined with offices. As they passed by, Haven peeked through the open doors to find people huddled over laptops or engaged in animated conversations.

  A bead of moisture broke out on her forehead and she wriggled out of her heavy winter coat.

  At the last door on the right, Mel slowed her steps. She reached for the handle.

  “Wait.” Haven’s hand clamped over Mel’s fist. “Please.”

  Twin pools of deep blue stared at her with a mix of shock and curiosity.

  “I can’t do this,” she whispered.

  Mel’s eyebrows inched upward. “Your father says you can.”

  “He’s wrong. He’s wrong about me.”

  “He says you have a strategic mind.”

  “No—I don’t know, maybe.” Haven shook the cobwebs from her muddled thoughts. “He doesn’t know me. I’m… a flake. I’m incompetent and unreliable and....”

  Alarm stole over Mel’s expression. “You attended college on a scholarship. You earned an MBA.”

  Haven swallowed convulsively. “I dropped out.”

  Mel’s hand dropped to her side. “You’re a fan of the super fan, at least. You’ve studied hockey your entire life.”

  “I hate hockey.” The confession burst from her. “I haven’t watched a game in years.”

  The color leached from Mel’s face. Then the line of her mouth thinned. Squaring her shoulders, she drew up to her full height, which was about six inches shorter than Haven’s five-foot-seven frame. “I guess you better start watching, then.”

  She wrenched the handle and shoved open the solid wood door.

  An older man standing at the head of an oblong table stopped speaking midsentence and turned to look at them. As did the dozen or more other men dressed in dark suits seated around the vast table.

  Their expressions ranged from curious, to cautious, to hostile.

  They waited.

  Expectant. Of what, she didn’t know, though she was certain she’d disappoint them.

  Someone coughed.

  Beside her, Mel spoke in a low voice. “This is your team now, Ms. Callahan. You can do this.” Her voice held a conviction Haven knew she couldn’t possibly believe. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  With that, Mel gave her a small push in the back, and she stumbled forward into a stream of sunlight pouring in through the wall of windows. She blinked against the harsh glare and stepped farther into the room.

  The man at the head of the table eyed her as though she were a bug. “Ah, you must be Haven.”

  Haven smoothed a clammy palm down the front of her black pencil skirt. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Darby, General Manager and Executive Vice President of Hockey Operations.” He pointed to the man at his right. “This is Coach Cal Chambers.”

  He continued around the table, naming the men and their titles. Assistants and executives of things she’d never heard of, coaches and specialists, it all jumbled into an inseparable tangle in her mind.

  All but one tiny tidbit.

  “It you’re the vice president, who’s the president? Shouldn’t they be here?”

  A rumble of annoyance vibrated in the back of Darby’s throat. “That’d be you.”

  “Oh.” Her frayed nerves unraveled.

  “Hank is this team’s owner and president.” Darby turned his back to her. “For the next sixty days, we’ll operate as though nothing has changed. Whether Hank’s here or a thousand miles away, sober or high on his next grandiose scheme, you all have a job to do and I expect you to do them.”

  His words penetrated the fog of panic closing in on her. Maybe it was the way he belittled her dad.

  Or the pointed look he gave her when he said, “You don’t need an owner or anyone else to tell you that. You have me, and I’m here to make sure each and every one of you is held accountable.”

  A deafening silence settled over the room when Darby lowered himself into a chair.

  One by one, all gazes strayed to her.

  The walls inched closer, crouching over her like angry beasts.

  “Uh… thank you. I… thank you.” Her heart thundered in her ears.

  The tension in the room wound tighter, until the strain became unbearable.

  She pushed a hard puff of air between her lips. “Okay, can someone just tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to say?”

  A smattering of surprised laughter carried around the room, releasing some of the pressure.

  “Say anything you want.” Bitterness edged Darby’s tone. “This is your show.”

  “Okay, well….” She fumbled for her purse. “My dad mentioned something about a trade. Have you talked about that yet?”

  Men straightened in their chairs and hunched over electronic devices on the table in front of them.

  “I like Miller out of Toronto.” The man spoke with a thick accent, Russian or Eastern European.

  Her hands trembled as she unfolded the flimsy napkin.

  “I’m not paying to buy out his contract,” Darby said. “Gauthier’s looking for a home.”

  Unable to steady the napkin long enough to read the names scrawled in her dad’s handwriting, she abandoned the effort.

  “We have sharpshooters in Donovan and Avery.” The man’s gravelly baritone sounded strained, as though he’d abused or torn his vocal chords. “We desperately need a defenseman.”

  “The best defense is a relentless offense.”

  A torrent of fervent chatter followed Darby’s declaration.

  The knot in her stomach wrenched and she turned from their aggression. Crossing to the bank of windows, she peered out at the cityscape while they argued strategy and discussed players she didn’t know anymore.

  Someone lashed out, a hostile bite to their tone, which was met with equal anger.

  Dizziness gripped her and she pressed her damp forehead to the glass.

  “He’s an energy guy,” the gravel-voiced man said.

  “He has good size. Six three, two fourteen,” someone added.

  “I thought he was injured.”

  “It’s a minor thing.”

  Cars eased down the busy city street. Haven ached to be on the other side of the glass. In one of those cars. Driving away from this place. Not stuck in a too-small room with too-thin air and all these too-fiery men.

  More than that, she wanted to be away from this city and back on that island. With Jack. A big man who didn’t incite terror in her.

  “His speed is a game changer. He’s got big powerful thighs, and his hockey IQ is off the charts.”

  Th
e room tilted and she laid the palm of her hand flat against the window to try to stop herself from sliding off the edge of the earth.

  “He’s got a dangerous slap shot and plays suffocating defense. If he—”

  “Him.” The word leaked from her.

  A beat of silence fell over the room.

  “Get me him,” she said to the window.

  “How long has he been back from injury?”

  “He has some rust to shake off. Nothing to worry about.”

  “We might be able to get him cheap.”

  “Detroit’s interested. They might’ve already struck the deal.”

  “No.” With the pressure sitting on her chest, her voice sounded weak. “I want him.”

  “We don’t need another right side forward,” Darby argued. “Lovejoy will be back from suspension next week, and Tierney can move over.”

  She faced the men. “I said I want him.”

  “We have other needs. Bigger needs.” Darby sounded bored. “What about Theroux?”

  Bile rose up and she careened toward the door, doing all she could to walk, not run. “The guy with the thighs, he fills our needs. He’s the priority.”

  “Look, I know you think you’re helping, but why don’t you leave this to us?”

  She mimicked the scowl on Darby’s grizzled features. “Do what you want with the others, but get me my guy.”

  Bolting from the room, she raced down the hall until she spotted the women’s restroom. She ducked inside and barricaded herself in the first stall. The air wheezing through her lungs stung. She collapsed back against the door and stared up at the ceiling, straining to pull in enough oxygen.

  It’d been years since her last panic attack. Therapy had helped, but only one thing ever stopped an attack.

  She had to flee. Run. Get away, far away, as fast as she could. Only then would she be able to breathe again.

  Jack glanced at his cell phone lying next to his lunch plate.

  The previous night, he’d talked to his agent, Graham, and let him know there might be a deal brewing to trade Jack to Detroit. Such deals might take hours or days, but Jack was cautiously optimistic he would get the call that day. At any moment.

  Across the table, Sutton picked at the scraggly plate of lettuce she called a salad.

  It had occurred to Jack to try to get out of his lunch date with Neal’s daughter. He had no enthusiasm for it, and when he saw the restaurant she’d picked, one of those places where people went more to be seen than to eat, any obligation he felt vanished.

  Still, lunch with a beautiful woman beat sitting in a hotel room trying to ignore the gnawing urge to take another pain pill. Haven remained the most powerful distraction from the cravings, and since they’d parted, the sheer strength of his will had proven stronger than the lure of those fucking pills.

  So far.

  Every day he won the battle, it’d get easier. He knew that much from witnessing several teammates go through the same struggle over the years.

  It was a common enough thing, this cycle. Years spent pushing their bodies to stay competitive, even as the players seemed to get bigger, stronger, and faster. The inevitable injury. The pressure to get back on the ice. To perform at a pre-injury level. Pills to cope with the pain, and the pressure, to get them back in the game quicker. A cycle that was easy to fall into, but hard as hell to break.

  A fresh start with a new team in a new city might be exactly what he needed to put it all behind him.

  For now, he forced his mind back to Sutton.

  Damn, but she was beautiful. Tall and long-limbed. A little too close to rail thin for his tastes, but supple. Along with her golden-streaked blonde hair and soft blue eyes, she compelled the gaze of everyone in the room.

  While strangers gawked, Jack contemplated all the ways Sutton’s striking appearance differed from Haven’s dark, quiet beauty.

  He pointed to her salad. “How is it?”

  “Great.” But a scowl touched her features.

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  She sighed. “I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t do for a slice of pizza.”

  He laughed. “Then why didn’t you get pizza?”

  “Because it goes straight to my hips and they’re putting me in a string bikini tomorrow,” she said, laughing with him.

  Jack thought she could use a little more on her hips, but he didn’t think she needed to hear his, or anyone else’s, opinion about her weight.

  Instead, he took a drink from his water glass and tipped his cell phone so he could read the display.

  No call from Graham.

  Noise at a nearby table drowned out Sutton’s soft voice.

  He leaned forward. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I said I had a crush on you.” Pink stained her cheeks. “From the time you came to live with us.”

  The confession knocked him back in the chair. “I didn’t know that.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t know I was alive.”

  “In my defense, you were twelve the day I turned eighteen. If I’d noticed you, that would not have been cool. At all. In fact, it would’ve been criminal.”

  A smile lit up her face. She really was breathtaking.

  His phone vibrated on the table.

  Her blue eyes swung to the device. “Is that him?”

  Jack had told Sutton about Neal’s plan and warned her a call might interrupt their lunch.

  He nodded. “Mind if I take it?”

  “Of course not.” She waved her hand. “Pick it up. Pick it up!”

  Smiling, he did as she ordered. “Hey, Graham, what’s going on?”

  Jack and Graham had been together since the beginning. Jack trusted Graham, and Graham understood Jack. Aware of Jack’s dyslexia, Graham never e-mailed or texted. Instead, he always picked up the phone and talked to Jack directly.

  “It’s been a hell of a morning.” Graham’s voice rode high and breathless.

  An answering rush of adrenaline kicked in Jack’s chest. This was it, the moment he’d been waiting for, working for, as long as he could remember.

  “Let me hear it.”

  “You’ve been traded—” Graham paused to catch a breath. “—to the Renegades.”

  The words slammed into Jack.

  “The Renegades?” He shook his head, trying to clear away the fuzz. “What about Detroit?”

  “Detroit was in on you early, but Milwaukee came in with an offer they couldn’t refuse. Two first-round draft picks, a third- and a fifth-round pick….” Graham rambled off the list of sparkle and bling attached to Jack’s trade, but Jack wasn’t listening.

  Nothing could bedazzle the pile of shit he’d just stepped in.

  Milwaukee?

  His mind scrambled to recall what he knew about the struggling franchise.

  The team owner was a drunk.

  They’d finished last in the league the last two seasons—not the division, but the entire league—and were working on a three-peat.

  They’d squandered a first-round draft pick, twice, and pissed away the loyalty of a rabid, hockey-loving fan base.

  They played in the absurdly named Hank’s Pizza Haven Arena, and he was going to have to play for them.

  In an arena named after shitty pizza.

  They were bad. Historically bad.

  “I’ve been traded to Milwaukee.” The words dropped off his tongue like cinder blocks.

  “You’ll be a free agent at the end of the season,” Graham was saying. “Detroit will pick you up then.”

  Jack reared back in his chair. “I’m a rental player?”

  “Milwaukee wanted you bad. They coughed up a big chunk of change to get you.”

  Graham told him the dollar figure, and Jack drove a hand through his hair. The money was nice, but fuck.

  He’d had it all right there in front of him, and it’d just slipped through his fingers. The dream, the Cup, the self-respect that came with playing for a competitive clu
b. All gone.

  Because of fucking Milwaukee.

  Chapter Nine

  Haven tossed and turned in restless sleep while her mind played with scenarios of fleeing. Fleeing town, fleeing the state, fleeing the country. But when the sun broke over the horizon and streamed into the penthouse, she climbed from the bed and shuffled to the spacious marble-tiled bathroom.

  After a shower, she dressed in the black slacks and a button-down white cotton shirt she often wore when bartending. She paired the ensemble with the red heels and a red belt, hoping it appeared as acceptable office attire, but not really knowing for sure.

  She’d not be fleeing town today. She couldn’t. Not this time.

  Well, not just yet anyway.

  The day before, while she’d crouched in the bathroom stall, someone had entered the restroom. The clip-clop of a woman’s heels had echoed in the small chamber, and soon two tiny feet appeared under the door outside Haven’s hideout.

  “You can come out anytime.” Mel’s voice held the authority of a military general.

  Haven had ignored her, knowing Mel would give up on her and leave. Eventually.

  But Mel didn’t leave.

  Haven had tried waiting her out. She must’ve remained holed up in that bathroom stall for forty minutes or more. When she finally emerged, disgruntled but curious, Mel’s keen gaze had swept swiftly over her. Then the older woman had crossed to a sink and wet a paper towel under the water’s soft spray.

  She held it out to Haven, who took the cool towel and pressed it to her forehead.

  Mel tilted her head to one side. “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you?”

  Haven had nodded before going to the sink and cranking the nozzle.

  While the water flowed, Mel watched her in the mirror with troubled eyes. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

  Haven opened her mouth to tell Mel there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening, but their gazes clashed in the mirror and the words wouldn’t come.

  Instead, Haven shut off the water and straightened away from the sink. “Yep.”

  So now, less than twenty-four hours after she’d emerged from that bathroom stall, Haven slipped into her winter coat and boots and set off in the direction of the river.