by Skye Jordan
Anger burned through her chest, but it almost immediately mellowed into hurt. A deep, frustrating hurt. One that made her eyes tear up.
Faith, girlfriend of Rough Riders’ center Grant Saber, turned from listening to the guys talk over the game and asked Mia, “Is he coming?”
“Nope." She thanked the bartender for her fresh glass of wine, then took a drink. She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe I’ll just move across the country without telling him. Let him hear it from Tate.”
She shook her head, her mind combing over the last year for clues to the change in their relationship. But she came up empty like always.
“I don’t get it. I just… We’ve been friends for years. Good friends, you know? If it weren’t for Tate, I’d say we were best friends. I know I’m his best girl friend. Or I was. Why would he just brush me off like this?”
“Maybe he’s going through a phase,” Faith offered, her voice compassionate. “Grant says he’s always hooking up with someone new. When I’m with the guys after the games, he eats up the puck bunny attention. He’s a good guy, but he’s not worth the aggravation, Mia. You have enough to think about right now.”
Faith was right, Mia did have a lot on her plate. The problem was, she needed one very big thing off her plate to make room for the rest, and that thing was Rafe. But she couldn’t do that if he didn’t cooperate.
But she wasn’t going to waste her time with friends bitching over it.
“You’re right. Screw him.” Mia stuffed the hurt and pulled up a smile. She reached out, tugging at the extra fabric on Faith’s boxy top. “Sweetie, don’t take this wrong, but is that the best jersey you can find?”
“Right?” She exclaimed, eyes wide, hand open and gesturing to the front of her body. “I said the exact same thing when I put it on tonight. I told Grant these women’s jerseys are so boring. They’re just like the men’s, just a little better fit. But nothing fun, nothing cute. If they’re going to go to all the trouble to design a whole line of women’s wear, it should be more than just a slimmed-down version of the men’s.”
”Sparkles and glitter,” Mia said in agreement. “And they ought to show some skin.”
“While we’re on the subject, I hate you for looking so ridiculously hot in that dress. Tell me where you got it.”
“Mmm,” Mia said around a sip of wine. “I made it. One of many I designed during this last apprenticeship.”
“No. Way.” She scanned Mia again, mouth open. “I really, really hate you now. Unless you’ll make me one. Then I won’t hate you quite so much.”
She lifted her brows. “Do you have a sewing machine?”
“Me? Ha. No.” Her face brightened. “But Beckett’s mom does. And I’m pretty sure his sister Sarah does too. In fact, I bet she’d love to talk to you while you’re in town. She’s gotten really into making things for the girls. She’s always altering patterns and doing really fun outfits.”
“I’d love to. I really want to see the girls. They grow so fast. Let me see how the week goes. I imagine I’ll have time on my hands. Maybe I can whip a dress out for you.”
Faith squealed and lunged at Mia to hug her. “Oh my God. I’m going to have an authentic Mia Leighton dress? I’m going to tell everyone.”
Mia laughed at the way Faith made her sound like a designer. Someday, Mia hoped she would get there, but she was a long way off. That kind of thing took a lot of cash, and she wasn’t ready to dig herself into debt or shackle herself to partners.
After all, according to her exes, she was a commitment phobe.
Faith leaned away, smiling. “You’re so lucky, headed into the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. I’m going to stalk you on Instagram and Pinterest and Facebook and anywhere else I can find you, so you’d better be taking and posting pictures of everything.”
“Will do,” Mia promised. “I hope you can make it out west for a visit once I get a place. Maybe in the off-season or when the guys play the Ducks or Kings.”
“Absolutely.” Faith squeezed her hand. “I’m going to miss you so much. But I’m so excited for you. This is a great time in your life. Young and free and working on a Hollywood set. You’re going to meet so many famous people.”
“You mean like these guys?” she said sarcastically, gesturing to the players still signing autographs and taking pictures with other customers, and felt another twinge of frustration over Rafe.
Faith laughed. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”
“I think that’s one of the things the producers liked about me. That I’d grown up with this, knew all these guys, and it didn’t faze me. I guess they wouldn’t get much done with someone fangirling over everyone all the time.” She drew a deep breath, trying to quell the roll in her stomach. “Gah. Every time I think about it, I still get nauseous.”
“That’s excitement.”
Partially. But there was a lot of other shit going on inside her. Once she got this thing with Rafe behind her, she’d feel better. Mia tipped her head, smiled, and drank more wine.
“It’s not excitement?” Faith narrowed her eyes. “Is it Sam? Are you having second thoughts?”
“You mean about the guy who called me emotionally unavailable, detached, and afraid to commit, then broke up with me and left me without a place to sleep? That Sam?”
“Right. Screw him. You just haven’t found the right guy,” Faith said. “When you do, you’ll jump in with both feet. Maybe he’s in California.”
Maybe. Either way, she was going to make sure that when she got there, she was completely unfettered and ready to take on anything. “It’s an amazing opportunity. I think the nerves stem from the fact that I don’t have much of a choice but to take it at this point. Anything else would leave me stagnant or send me backward in my career. Lack of options is scary.”
“Transitions are always hard. Once you’re there, you’re going to love it.” Faith picked up her beer and glanced toward Grant, where he talked with teammates. “Uh-oh.” She refocused on Mia. “The new guy’s locked on to you.”
Mia glanced around at the team standing or sitting in small groups or milling among friends. The new guy was Cole Kilbourne, a trade from Calgary to give the Rough Riders more offensive power in the playoffs. According to Tate, he was an arrogant asshole who thought he was a one-man team and hurt more than helped them.
“I can see the problem from here,” Mia told Faith. “He’s too handsome for his own good.” All the guys were well built and fit, but they didn’t all have the best faces. Cole’s blond hair and chiseled features belonged in a Calvin Klein ad. “That alone probably made the guys hate him on sight. Does Grant dislike him as much as Tate?”
“Grant doesn’t love him, but you know Tate, he leans a little toward the extreme on most things he believes in. Though, I have to admit, every time Cole opens his mouth, he digs his own hole a little deeper.”
Cole stepped away from the edge of a circle of guys who weren’t including him anyway and started toward Mia and Faith.
Mia sighed. “Incoming.” Then an idea popped into her head. “Does Rafe hate him as much as Tate?”
“Oh God, yes. Cole and Rafe ram heads on a regular basis.”
Her devious side perked up. “Well, if Rafe won’t come to me, I might just have to go to him. And maybe I’ll bring a friend.”
“Oh no.” Faith laughed the words. “Remind me not to make you mad.”
Cole came up to them, greeted Faith, then turned to Mia. With his hand held out to her, he said, “Hello, beautiful.” When she shook his hand, he enclosed it in both of his. “I’m Cole Kilbourne. It's normal to be intimidated by me, but try to get over that, because I have a feeling we’re going to be very, very close.”
A little laugh huffed from Mia’s lips. Then the fact that he was totally serious hit, and full, rolling laughter burst out.
“Oh, I can see why you’re such a favorite.” She pulled her hand from his and patted the stool on the other side of her. “Come sit, Cole
. Let’s get to know each other.”
When Cole moved to her other side, Mia winked at Faith, who grinned, rolled her eyes, picked up her drink, and wandered to her boyfriend’s side.
Before Mia had fully turned back to Cole, something flew over her head, bounced off Cole’s forehead, and landed on the bar. A balled-up napkin. Frowning, Mia glanced over her shoulder and found Tate stabbing the air in their direction.
“Sisters are off-limits, Kilbourne. Touch her and you’ll wish you’d never heard of the Rough Riders.”
That. That right there had governed so much of her childhood, she couldn’t even see how or when it had insinuated its way into the fabric of her life. She and Rafe might never have taken their friendship to the next level even if they’d been left to follow their hearts, but Tate’s fierce protective streak made just the thought an absolute impossibility.
That, plus the fact that Rafe barely even acknowledged her existence anymore, along with all the stress built up from this new job, was pushing her over the line tonight.
She opened her mouth to tell Tate to grow up and stay out of her business, but Cole touched her jaw and brought her gaze around to his. “Ignore him. I’m way more interesting.”
Mia let her frustration toward Tate ebb. Tate wouldn’t change. Rafe wouldn’t change. The complex relationships between their bizarre, makeshift little family wouldn’t change.
But Mia could change. Mia had changed. And what she needed most right now was to stay focused on her primary goal: getting her heart unhooked from a ridiculous fantasy she’d held on to since adolescence—her romantic feelings for Rafe.
Once she accomplished that, everything else would fall into place.
And since Rafe was pulling his new normal tonight and avoiding her, Mia was going to have to take more desperate measures. What the hell? She didn’t have anything better to do. And she sure didn’t have anything to lose either.
So she leaned into the bar, smiled at Cole, and said, “Tell me about yourself.”
3
An older man in a staff uniform smiled as they approached the entrance to the restaurant. Rafe opened his mouth to tell him what name the reservations were under but Ashlee spoke first.
“Reservations under Savage,” she said. “Rafe Savage. I called down earlier and spoke with the restaurant manager, Dennis. He said he would reserve table twelve for us.” She glanced at Rafe. “Twelve is our lucky number, right? Your jersey number and the number I picked to win this dinner? It’s okay, isn’t it? I know hockey players are superstitious and all, but I figured if your number was twelve, you couldn’t have superstitions against it, right? Now, thirteen, definitely. And if there had been a table numbered sixty-nine, well, you know I would have jumped on that one first, but of course there’s not. Could you imagine how big a restaurant would have to be to have sixty-nine tables?”
“This way please.” The older man was trying—and failing—to hide his grin when he turned away and started into the restaurant.
Ashlee followed.
But Rafe stood there frozen for a long second, mouth still hanging open at the babble that had rolled out of the woman’s mouth in mere seconds.
How much trouble would he be in if he turned and walked out? Really? What could they do to him? Tate was right about benching him. In the normal season, he’d definitely be risking missing out on playing time, but not with the playoffs.
“Rafe?”
Her voice cut off his hopes of running. He refocused on her. She stood about twenty feet away, between two tables of diners, looking back at him over her shoulder. Her silky straight blonde hair swept over her bare, tanned skin revealed by the open back of her dress. And damn, the woman had an incredible ass.
An image of her riding him while he gripped that ass and hauled her into his thrusts flashed in his brain. His blood drizzled south and his cock tingled. Unfortunately, not as much as he preferred. Or needed.
But Rafe took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and sighed. She was probably just nervous. After a drink or two, she’d relax. After a drink or five, he wouldn’t care what she said. “Yep, right here.”
He pulled out the chair facing the wide windows, showcasing a gorgeous view of Capitol Hill for Ashlee.
“My, what a view,” she said. “You can just never get tired of that, can you? I love touring and walking all the neighborhoods of DC. No matter how many times you do it, you always see something new. And the museums… Can you believe they’re all free? That just amazes me. I don’t know how they manage that, what with their displays changing all the time…”
Rafe had long since taken his own seat on the other side of the table with his view of the bar, where people his age were actually having fun. And he had to fight not to roll his eyes as Ashlee continued to talk.
And talk.
And talk.
The waiter held out a tall, thin menu toward Rafe. “We have an extensive list of wines—”
Ashlee cut him off with a sparkling smile and, “We’ll have a bottle of Mondavi’s 1996 Opus One, please.”
Rafe’s breath caught in his throat. He felt the skin of his face chill. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t his money. But when the waiter turned his gaze from Ashlee to Rafe with the slightest lift of his brows, Rafe said, “Actually, let’s make that a bottle from 2012.” He smiled at Ashlee. “In honor of—”
“Your second hundredth goal with the NHL, and of course our lucky number—”
“Of course.” Rafe smiled, but his satisfaction came from knowing he’d just saved the team twelve hundred freaking dollars on a bottle of wine only Ashlee would be drinking. Rafe already knew he’d need something much, much stronger. “And could I get Patron?” he asked the waiter. “Best you’ve got on the shelf.”
The older man nodded, took the wine list, and retreated.
“I never dreamed you’d be even better looking in person.” Ashlee rested her elbows on the edge of the table, clasped her fingers beneath her chin, and sighed with a dreamy look on her face. “This is just so exciting. You should have seen me when I won. I don’t know if you saw that video clip of me when I picked the number twelve in the lottery, but, oh my God, when I saw the prize, I screamed like a girl. I mean, of course I am a girl, but I’ve never sounded more like a girl than I did in that moment. My heart was just bruising my ribs. Kinda like it is now. I’m not normally a nervous person…”
A server brought water to the table, and the waiter returned with the wine and Rafe’s Patron. Ashlee never shut up. Barely even paused to take a breath. While the waiter uncorked and poured the wine, Rafe swallowed the rich, luxurious tequila he should have been sipping. And when the waiter set the wine bottle back on the table, he offered the empty glass.
“Another, sir?”
Before Rafe could answer, Ashlee said, “If his glass is empty, just assume he wants a refill.” Then to Rafe, “I’ve read about your love for Patron. An elegant drink, if you ask me. Sexy. Suits you perfectly. I had a little extra time after I checked in earlier—I’m staying here at the hotel, by the way. I thought that would be easiest. No pressure or anything, I just like to be prepared. And it gave me time to look over the menu…”
Rafe mentally checked out while she continued the nonstop monologue over food. When the waiter brought Rafe’s second Patron, he had to force himself not to hammer it back. He was sure she would have at least slowed down by the time she had a glass of wine in her, but she just kept talking.
Right through the salads.
Straight into the main course.
“…in fact, my mama says my husband is going to be a very lucky man. She trained at the Le Cordon Bleu before she met my father and puts on the most amazing dinner parties, and she’s been grooming me since I was knee-high. My father is constantly entertaining. Real estate at his level is such a fussy business, but I so enjoy meeting and chatting with his clients. Recently, he represented the ambassador to Kenya, and the man brought his eight children with him. Eight. Can yo
u believe? I mean, I love kids, and I want a big family, but eight? Anyway, I pitched in and entertained the kids while the ambassador and his wife toured properties with my father, and oh, those children were so precious…”
The waiter quietly replaced Rafe’s empty glass with a refill. His fourth. Rafe knew he couldn’t drink it. He should have stopped after one. Too much alcohol would dehydrate him. The aftereffects could dull his reaction times in tomorrow’s game. And the realization was truly painful.
Rafe tilted his head back and met the man’s eyes. They held gazes a moment. And a very clear understanding passed between them. The waiter gave him the slightest nod of sympathy before he placed a comforting hand on Rafe’s shoulder and drifted away.
Rafe cut a piece of prime rib and lifted it to his mouth. Chewing, he met Ashlee’s gaze to give the illusion of actually listening, then slid his focus slightly left, where he could watch the customers at the bar again.
Ashlee giggled at something she’d said. She was three glasses into the bottle and now seriously tipsy, bordering on drunk. Rafe wished he were as lucky. While he was definitely feeling the Patron, he wasn’t near as numb as he wanted to be. And this dinner had the horrible potential to go on forever, especially considering Ashlee was talking too much to eat.
He picked up his water glass instead of the alcohol and tipped the glass back. His gaze skimmed over the bar again, and he caught sight of a new couple sliding onto stools at the end of the bar bordering the restaurant.
The man caught Rafe’s attention. Tall, blond, well-dressed, good-looking— Cole Kilbourne. The Rough Riders’ new trade from the Calgary Flames. Prick was the first thing that came to Rafe’s mind. It was no secret that Kilbourne wasn’t any happier about the trade than the Rough Riders were.
The guy was in his early twenties and needed to have that hot-shit chip smacked off his shoulder in a big way. He might be good at getting the puck in the net, but he lacked so many other crucial skills to pull a team together, Rafe thought they were better off without him. Kilbourne had nothing but a bad attitude since he’d arrived, he was too arrogant to even attempt to try and work with the other players, and lacked even the most basic respect for teammates and coaching staff.
