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

by Amy Olle

  When she arrived at the arena, she rode the elevator to the third floor. With a ding, the doors slid open, but a large man with light brown hair waiting to enter the car hamstrung her exit. They sidestepped one another and as they passed, his light brown eyes caught hers.

  An odd expression crept across his face, something like recognition, except without a friendly smile or even the barest acknowledgment.

  A shudder passed through her.

  Then the elevator doors closed on him and she turned as Mel greeted her. In the no-nonsense manner Haven was fast becoming familiar with, Mel showed Haven to a large office beyond the reception area.

  At the door, she stumbled to a stop.

  The space was larger than her bedroom in Seattle. Maybe larger than the entire apartment she’d shared with Kaitlyn.

  A wall of windows ran the length of the room and the largest flat-screen TV she’d ever seen hung on the opposite wall before a leather sofa, twin club chairs, and an oversized coffee table. At the far end of the office sat a dark wood desk surrounded by matching bookcases, which held no books but instead were stuffed with framed photographs and various sports paraphernalia.

  Mel closed the door behind her as she slipped out of the room, leaving Haven alone in the cavernous office.

  Haven removed her coat and laid it over the arm of one of the club chairs. Moving around the desk, she sank into the ginormous leather chair, but her feet didn’t reach the ground.

  Her head hanging over the side of the chair, she fiddled with the settings when the office phone rang.

  She bolted upright. The phone rang again, and cautiously she reached out to pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Callahan, Mr. Callahan is on the line for you.”

  “Uh, okay—”

  Her dad’s voice crackled over the line. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever found you where I expected you to be.”

  “Hi, Dad. Checking up on me?”

  “Damn straight, I am. I heard about the new player you picked up last night. A veteran forward with strong defensive skills. That’s a good get, Haven. I like it. I like it a lot.”

  A tiny bloom of pride sprouted in her chest. “Thanks.” She ducked her chin to hide the smile she couldn’t stop from forming. “How are you feeling?”

  “Well, they finally sprang me from the hospital, so I guess I’m doing better.”

  The folder Mel had given her yesterday lay on the desk and she flipped it open. “When do you leave for California?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Wariness tinged his voice. “I wanted to give you the number where I’ll be so you can reach me. You ready?”

  Scrambling, she found a sticky note and pen in one of the desk drawers. “Ready.”

  He relayed the phone number and she wrote down the digits to the rehabilitation center where he’d be spending the next sixty days. “I won’t call unless it’s catastrophic. You focus on getting better.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “I’m glad you’re doing this, Dad.” She cleared her throat to cover up the unexpected surge of emotion. “Any last-minute advice?”

  “Oh, let’s see.” Her dad grew quiet for a moment. “I guess I’d say, don’t get too close to the players. They’re employees and this is business. Things are a lot easier if you don’t know them as actual people. Remember that, and you should be fine.”

  “That’s the one thing you don’t have to worry about.” She’d rather lick the ice clean after a game than “get close” to a professional athlete, let alone a hockey player. “Take care, Dad.”

  She returned the receiver to the cradle. Not sure what she should be doing, she leafed through the documents in Mel’s folder and became quickly engrossed in the stats and figures contained within. So engrossed that she didn’t break until her stomach let loose with an angry growl near midafternoon.

  The corner of one bookcase housed a mini-fridge and microwave. She rolled over to the fridge and pulled open the door. A gasp slipped from her when she saw the contents. Among a twelve-pack of Diet Coke and a box of Chinese takeout, she counted eight half pints of Grey Goose, small enough to slip into the breast pocket of a suitcoat.

  She took a Diet Coke, tossed the leftovers and the vodka in the garbage, and slammed the door closed.

  As she sipped from the can, a sharp knock on the door startled her. She jerked and a splotch of soda sloshed from the can and splattered onto her white blouse. A bull’s-eye directly between the breasts, where the fabric tended to gape.

  Mel swept into the office, a young man with chestnut-brown hair and horn-rimmed eyeglasses in tow.

  “Ms. Callahan, this is Mr. Martin. Your father appointed him the new Director of Communications this morning.”

  That explained the terror glimmering in his dark eyes.

  She offered him a commiserating smile. “Please, Haven will do.”

  “Wyatt.” He shoved a loose-leaf sheet of paper to her. The corners quivered. “This is the press release we sent out regarding Mr. Callahan’s car accident and your appointment in his absence.”

  She cringed when she took the paper from him. “How has the coverage been?”

  The past two days, she’d been too afraid to turn on the TV.

  Wyatt’s beat of silence confirmed her fears.

  He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The press conference will help, I think.”

  “Press conference?” The sharp punch of panic struck in the center of her chest. “What press conference?”

  “The one starting now.” Mr. Martin’s eyes darted between Haven and Mel.

  Mel peered at him over the rim of her reading glasses. “Did you send notice to Sabrina?”

  Wyatt frowned. “Who? No.” His throat worked.

  “Next time you schedule something, e-mail Sabrina with the information and she’ll add it to Ms. Callahan’s calendar.”

  “I have a calendar?”

  “Yes.” Mel’s round features pinched. “Mr. Martin, will you show Ms. Callahan to the media room?”

  Haven reared back. “I don’t want to go to a press conference.”

  Wyatt blanched. “They’re going to introduce the new player, and Coach Chambers is going to take some questions.”

  “The new player? He’s here already?”

  “Arrived an hour or so ago.” He pointed to the sheet of paper in her hand. “We’d like you to read the statement on the back.”

  Haven’s heart dropped to her stomach. “All I have to do is read it?”

  “I don’t advise you to say a single word more than what is on that paper.”

  With a sinking sensation, Jack watched the Milwaukee Renegades’ media room fill with reporters and beat writers. He recognized a couple of the national guys and suppressed a groan.

  The national writers didn’t show up often, and when they did, it meant either the team was winning, or they were embroiled in scandal.

  As this was the Milwaukee Renegades, an organization allergic to winning and in the midst of perpetual turmoil, Jack understood the reason for their appearance. Even so, the steady stream of bodies cramming into the room struck him as remarkable.

  He supposed it probably shouldn’t. Other than winning, nothing drew more clicks than a downward spiral of incompetence and self-destruction.

  Entangled in the logistical nightmare of relocating to a new city in a twenty-four-hour period, he’d so far managed to dodge the gory details. The move had been smooth, in large part because he’d so far avoided the hassle of a wife and kids and, thus, the nuisance of relocating them as well. Within hours, everything was set and he was ready to go.

  He’d arrived at the arena around noon, one day after his trade, where he met with the coaches and a few players. He knew Cal Chambers from his work with a minor league affiliate team and respected the hell out the young coach. Though his tenure with the Renegades was off to a rough start, Jack gave the man and his staff an open mind. He listened as Coach exp
lained his vision for the team, and Jack’s role in achieving that vision.

  Jack liked what he heard. He liked to play the kind of hockey Coach’s scheme favored, and the man’s excitement to have Jack onboard appeared genuine. So much so that soon, some of Jack’s initial disappointment began to fade.

  Maybe his trade wouldn’t turn out to be the train wreck he feared. He was a professional, after all. A seasoned warrior. The Renegades organization didn’t define him. The game did. He’d do everything in his power to win games, as he’d always done, and he’d collect a damn good paycheck for doing so. When opportunity arose, as it also always did, he’d be ready to seize it and take his career to the next level.

  Then the Renegades’ GM, Darby Poitiers, joined them, and it all seemed to turn to shit.

  Coach’s clear vision became murky, and the solid foundation he’d described weakened under Poitiers’s heavy qualifiers and nebulous strategies. When Poitiers mentioned the press conference, which was set to begin in a matter of minutes, the entire staff seemed flummoxed.

  Amidst scrambling bodies and a terse exchange wherein they decided to introduce “the new guy” to the media, Jack’s disappointment snowballed, picking up traces of anger and disgust as it rolled downhill. He despised incompetence, never more so than when it meant innocent bystanders, such as himself in that moment, would suffer.

  He arrived in the Renegades’ media room, determined to get through the hellish task of a disorganized press conference and a meet-and-greet with the front office staff, so that he could return to his real work—figuring out what the fuck he was going to do now.

  Bodies already packed the second-floor media room when Haven arrived with Wyatt. Large pieces of equipment littered the floor like landmines. While Wyatt moved to the platform at the front of the room, Haven slunk off to one side.

  As she backed up to the wall, her heel caught on a cord. She stumbled and came up hard against a large body. Hands gripped her arms, steadying her, and when she twisted around, she collided with a broad, suit-clad chest.

  Dazedly, she looked up.

  Into green-gold eyes.

  His set features melted with recognition. “Haven?” His fingertips brushed her cheek. “It’s really you.”

  A jolt ricocheted through her.

  “Jack.” His name fell from her lips like a prayer. “What are you doing here?”

  She tilted her head toward his warm touch, but he was already pulling away.

  Wyatt’s voice crackled through the microphone. “Thank you, everyone, for coming out today. I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of the Milwaukee Renegades, Jack Nolan. Jack? C’mon up.”

  Jack’s hand dropped away from her face. “Wait for me, please. I have to….”

  He bounded up onto the stage.

  She stared after him, her mouth slack, as he moved to stand at the podium.

  He stooped to speak into the microphone. “I want to thank the Milwaukee Renegades organization for this opportunity. I look forward to continuing my career in this great, hockey-loving city.”

  She fell back, coming up hard against the wall.

  Jack Nolan.

  She’d slept with Jack Nolan. Last weekend.

  Her Jack was Jack Nolan, the same man now standing up on that stage. A hockey player. A hockey player on her dad’s team.

  Her team.

  Wyatt stepped up to the mic. “If anyone has any questions?”

  Hands shot into the air and Wyatt pointed to a reporter.

  “How’s the groin, Jack?”

  The best sex of her life, with the most tender, special man she’d ever almost wanted to kind of sort of fall in love with, was with a professional athlete employed by her father?

  Jack’s smile mimicked the heartbreaker’s smile he’d used on her. “I don’t think I know you well enough yet to answer that question, Matt.”

  Laughter drifted through the room.

  “No but honestly, I’m feeling great,” Jack said. “I’m ready to play.”

  Beneath the glare of artificial lights, his dark hair shone and his bright eyes blazed in his beautiful face. The pleasant arrangement of his features resembled her Jack, but the cool professional standing behind that podium didn’t match her memory.

  She couldn’t catch her breath, as if she’d fallen and had the wind knocked out of her.

  How had this happened?

  She recalled Jack’s touch, his soothing heat and reassuring strength. Incredible strength. Seriously, his body was rock-hard. The muscles chiseled. A memory flashed through her mind of how the muscles of his abdomen rippled when he moved over her.

  Then she remembered his comment about how much he traveled for work. A pro athlete would travel a remarkable amount. A college professor? Probably not so much.

  Her head dropped back and landed against the wall with a thud. Well, hell.

  Another reporter called out a question. “Yesterday, rumors swirled of a possible trade to Detroit, but by the end of the day, you’d been sent to Milwaukee. What is that like, to go from possibly playing for one of the best teams in the league only to end up on the roster of a struggling Renegades team?”

  Jack’s features took on a grim set. “I’m excited for a chance to win hockey games.”

  Wyatt stepped forward. “We have time for one more question.”

  “Hi, Jack. Kyle Gregory from the Milwaukee Gazette. Ten years ago, you were the thirty-seventh player selected in what was widely considered the weakest draft in a decade. Did you think then that you’d experience such a long career in the league?”

  When Jack’s disquieting gaze fastened on Kyle, the man stumbled over his next words. “And what are your remaining g-goals before r-retirement?”

  Except for the muscle that ticked in his jaw, Jack stood still as an ice sculpture. “Thirty-eighth.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was the thirty-eighth player selected in the draft that year.”

  Kyle looked down at his tablet. “It says here—”

  “Corey DeBoer was the number one overall pick, taken by Boston,” Jack interrupted. “Brandon Crawford went to Phoenix second. Montreal took Ben Braden and Nashville took Joe Stakoviac.”

  While Jack continued, Kyle, and several other reporters, listened with their heads bent low over their phones and tablets, their fingers swiping and tapping frantically.

  “Pick six was Marcus Chumra to Detroit, seven was Dylan Montgomery to Vancouver, and eighth was Johan Fredrickson to Minnesota.”

  A camera flashed.

  Jack went on naming players and the teams that’d selected them. A soft buzz built among the reporters as they murmured to one another, fact-checking Jack’s list. By the time he reached the mid-twenties, the buzz in the room had swelled to a steady drone.

  He stumbled once, at number thirty-four. “Columbus picked the kid out of Denmark. Henrik….”

  “Nilsson,” someone called out.

  “Henrik Nilsson. That’s it. San Jose had the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth picks, and they took Jacob Bartoleme and Mikko Kucherov. I forget which was which.” Then Jack’s gaze found Kyle. “And the thirty-seventh pick was Casey Reynolds to Toronto.”

  He started to straighten away from the podium, but bent forward once more. “And to answer your other question, yes, I have goals before I retire.”

  Jack moved to the edge of the platform as Coach Chambers stepped up to the podium. He spoke about Jack’s skills as a player and about the team’s recent string of losses.

  She barely registered his words over the hammering of her heart, which tripped and fell into an erratic rhythm when Jack’s brilliant gaze locked on her, a confused frown playing over his features.

  Coach tossed out a nonanswer to a reporter’s question about how he planned to turn the season around, and then Wyatt was moving toward the podium.

  He bent to the microphone. “Thank you, Coach. Ms. Callahan will make a brief statement and take your questions.”

  Th
e effort to walk seemed agonizing. She crossed the platform as though trapped inside one of those dreams where she couldn’t move her legs, and the more she tried, the harder it became, until the struggle and the panic frightened her awake.

  Except she didn’t wake up, and with the intense awareness of a nightmare, she noted the moment Jack’s face darkened. Curiosity and confusion twisted into shock, and then something else. Something uglier.

  She turned away from him and into the harsh brightness of the media’s lights. Behind the blinding glare, fuzzy forms and faces swarmed.

  She hated how her voice shook when she read Wyatt’s prepared statement. Two sentences that conveyed very little.

  Then the questions started.

  “Will your dad face criminal charges?”

  A camera flash went off.

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “Should the commissioner decide to take disciplinary action, will Hank accept his punishment?”

  “He’s seeking help for his problem. I believe that proves his willingness to accept the consequences of his actions.”

  The questions came at her like arrows across the bow.

  “Is Hank planning to sell the team?”

  “Are you his successor?”

  “Is it true an oil tycoon wants to buy the team and move it to Canada?”

  Memories swamped her of the last time she’d stood in front of the media and tried to defend herself. “My dad has no plans to be away from the organization longer than is necessary for him to receive treatment.”

  Her gaze darted to the shadows in search of Wyatt. She found him standing beside Darby. He must’ve recognized the plea in her eyes, for he lurched forward, but Darby’s hand on his arm stopped him coming to her rescue.

  “Your father has the worst record of any owner in the conference in a decade.” It was a statement. “What will you do differently?”

  “The focus right now is getting Coach Chambers the players he needs to win hockey games.” Some of the strength returned to her voice. “My dad trusts Darby Poitiers to do his job, and so will I. Unless or until proven wrong.”

  “What qualifications do you have to run an organization of this size?”