Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel

by Skye Jordan

  Mia was thinking about dreams. About Rafe having achieved his personal dream so young, yet going on to use his talents to help other people fulfill their dreams. And damn if she didn’t fall in love with him again, right there on the spot.

  With her heart so full it ached, she leaned down and kissed him gently, letting her lips linger on his. He stroked her hair off her face, and when she pulled back, she smiled. “I can’t tell you how lucky I feel to have you in my life. You are such a special man.”

  He stroked her cheek with his thumb and held her gaze until she curled into his arm and pressed her head to his shoulder.

  They’d gotten way off the subject of their relationship, and Mia didn’t know how to bring it back around to ending it, or if she even should right now.

  “What would you think of me spending the summer here?” came from him out of nowhere.

  She processed that for a split second, but when she only came up with what the hell? Mia sat up. She looked at him, opened her mouth, but her thoughts tangled somewhere between her brain and her lips. Frustrated, she scooped his T-shirt from the floor where she’d dumped it when she’d pulled it off him earlier that night before Rafe had pinned her to the bed.

  Pulling it over her head and jerking her arms through, she rolled to her knees, planted her hands on her thighs, and said, “Where did that come from?”

  He shifted to his side, and the sheet fell forward, exposing the curve of his ass and his thickly muscled thigh. “Sounds like you don’t like that idea.” His tone was guarded and hurt. Brittle. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, giving Mia his back. “That’s fine. Let’s drop it.”

  She lunged for him and dug her fingers into his shoulder. “Don’t you dare do that with me.”

  He turned back, shrugging off her hand. “Do what? I asked you a question. You answered it. You don’t have to read something into everything.”

  “You didn’t just ask me a question, Rafe. You just spun my world on its axis. So don’t act all butt hurt when I call you on it.”

  He heaved a breath, hung his head, and ran all five fingers through his hair. “Shit.”

  Mia was torn. Half of her wanted to be his best friend, show him compassion, and tell him he could tell her anything and it would be okay. But she’d crossed well beyond friendship with him, and that deep investment held an incredible risk to her heart. She needed him to know he couldn’t just say anything and expect her to accept it.

  So she fought for a happy medium. “Rafe, it’s me. Just talk. It doesn’t have to come out right the first time. I’ve heard every stupid thing you’ve ever said.” That made him huff a laugh. “Just start somewhere, and we’ll talk it out until we get it straight.”

  He dropped back to the bed. Quiet seconds lingered that twisted Mia’s insides into a pretzel. By the time he turned to sit sideways, Mia had a fist pressed against her belly for counterpressure.

  “There’s nothing to straighten out. I try to find ways to make this work, but every path I take ends in a brick wall. I figured I should ask if you were even interested in the idea before I kept denting my head. I mean, it’s your new life and all. Maybe you want to start fresh, no ties. I mean, I could understand that, I guess.”

  “The idea of, what? Having you in LA this summer?”

  His gaze met hers in the most adorably hopeful look, she wanted to jump in his lap and kiss him. “Yeah.”

  She bit her lip to help herself deal with her very painful reality. “I think that would depend on what you planned to do after the summer. Because I’m over having guys walk away from me. And I’m definitely not up for just falling even deeper in love with you only to get my heart broken even worse when you say hasta la vista as soon as hockey season kicks in.”

  He gave her a curious look, like he hadn’t fully understood what she’d said. But he turned toward her a little more. “The season is where I keep hitting walls. All the West Coast games are scheduled together in one week. But the other months, we’re playing every second day, practicing on the others. All except for those once-a-month three- or five-day breaks. But you know how the management stuffs those with charity and promotional events.”

  “Hold on.” She put up her hand. “I just need to make sure we’re not in parallel universes right now. You’re talking about having breaks in play to be able to come visit me?”

  “Yeah,” he said with that what else attitude.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  But the giddiness didn’t settle.

  “Okay,” she said, grabbing his arm. “Come here.” She didn’t relent until she was back on his lap. “Now.” She took a breath, cupped his face, and said, “Tell me exactly what you want, Rafe.”

  “What I’ve always wanted,” he said, his voice soft, matter-of-fact. “You. I just want to find a way to be with you.”

  Those giddy flutters kicked up in her gut. Something had definitely happened at practice today. “And what about Tate?”

  Unease hazed Rafe’s eyes, but Mia also recognized a familiar determination. One that she trusted. One that allowed her to relax and release all her reservations. Tate was as loyal as Rafe was dependable.

  He met her eyes, then skimmed her face. “I can talk to him after the season’s over, two weeks at the longest.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “It won’t be pretty. He may hate me for a while.” Rafe went quiet, but his hands continued to move over her back. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know how Tate or Joe will feel about me, and I can’t control that.” He lifted his gaze to Mia’s and cupped her face. “What I do know is that I can’t face a future without you loving me.”

  Mia’s breath caught, and a little gasp choked in her throat. She pressed her forehead to his and doubled her arms around his neck. His arms mirrored hers around her body, pulling her close.

  He forced the air from her lungs, allowing her to pull in fresh air. And she used it to murmur a shaky “I love you,” at his ear, then laughed tears of relief. “I love you so much.”

  Rafe turned his head and found her mouth with his, and Mia tasted a fresh wave of emotion and desperation.

  He pulled back, dragged the shirt she’d pulled on over her head, and stroked his hands over her skin from hips to shoulders. “Show me, baby.”

  16

  Rafe raced off the ice during a line change near the end of the first period. On the bench, he purposely ignored the curious gazes of his teammates, leaned his shoulder against the wall, and followed the game while his breathing and his heart rate slowed.

  His line mates, Tate and Ty, dropped to the bench and grabbed water bottles. Tate threw Rafe a towel, and he wiped the acrylic shield on his helmet.

  Paul, one of the developmental trainers, stopped next to Rafe. “Chippy game already.”

  “Yeah.” He tossed the towel at Tate, and when he looked back, Rafe said, “Water?”

  The water bottle flew. Rafe caught it and squirted the cold liquid into his mouth. He felt Paul’s gaze on his face, scrutinizing, like he was trying to crawl inside Rafe’s head.

  He knew he was acting different today. He was feeling different today. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. Even if there was, he wouldn’t, because he was playing the best hockey of his life.

  But he wasn’t feeling high today. Not like he had in previous games after making love to Mia and playing like Gretzky. Correction, after fucking Mia. Maybe that was the difference. Last night, he and Mia had made love. And today, Rafe was playing like Gretzky and Crosby combined. On drugs.

  And, ironically, it wasn’t because of the sex. Yet it was.

  Rafe was fully aware that while the act of sex itself was a fantastic stress reliever and energy inducer, it was no magic wand for great hockey. But making love with Mia and hearing those words come from her heart had shifted the foundation of Rafe’s life. And he’d been all in…until he’d shown up at the stadium. And been greeted so enthusiastically by Tate and the rest of his team.

  F
acing them all, knowing he would very well also soon shift the foundation of all their lives—and not for the better—had put a huge dent in his post I-love-you euphoria. Everything in Rafe’s life had suddenly gained significance—and fragility—making him intensely in the moment. Hyperaware of his relationship with Tate, his interactions with every teammate. Which had extended to the game. To every micromovement of every opponent and the puck on the ice.

  That made Rafe lightning quick. It enabled him to anticipate things before they happened. Allowed him to cut off plays, block shots, steal passes, and make the only two goals in the game thus far.

  Now, on the ice, Beckett slammed the Ducks’ defenseman against the boards and slapped the puck to Maddox, who sprinted toward the opposition’s goal.

  Rafe took the empty spot on the end of the bench beside Tate and rested his burning thighs, trying to keep his head in the game. He’d be going back in soon and needed to be informed when he did.

  “You’re white-hot again tonight,” Tate said without taking his eyes off the ice.

  The barely there insinuation in his friend’s tone made Rafe’s stomach pinch. “Gettin’ lucky.”

  Tate’s head turned toward Rafe. “With who?”

  Rafe frowned at him and found accusation in his friend’s familiar eyes. The look cut deep. Panic trickled through his gut. “I meant in the game, dumb shit.”

  “You believe in skill, not luck.”

  The crowd surged with hope, and they both refocused on the game. But Rafe’s icy panic melted into a pool of dread.

  He had the overwhelming sensation of being trapped. Trapped between his two best friends. Trapped between the two people he loved most.

  And terrified he could lose them both.

  “First line.” Tremblay’s words brought Tate, Rafe, and Tierney to their feet with two minutes left in the first period.

  Rafe and Tate stood at the open door. Hawkins straddled the half wall leading to the rink, waiting for the second line to get close before they pushed onto the ice.

  Just as they shoved off, Tierney smiled at Rafe. “Let’s go for the hat trick. You’ve got two minutes.”

  As soon as Rafe’s blades touched the ice, his mind cleared of all his scattered thoughts. Noise from the stands, the announcers, the stadium, faded. All he heard was the swoosh and scratch of skates and sticks. The swat and smack of the puck. The call of voices between teammates.

  And that strange haze that had infiltrated his brain since he’d walked into the stadium earlier in the day settled over him. Rafe’s body moved on the ice automatically, the way other people walked without thought. He saw the rink and everyone on it within a 180-degree view at once. Read body language in split-second increments and reacted.

  With the clock sliding toward the minute mark, the Ducks’ forward, Drew Dekker, caught a rebound off Tierney’s skate blade and sprinted toward the Rough Riders’ goal. Rafe had seen the rebound and Dekker’s position to catch it a second in advance, and he was already swinging that direction when Dekker gained control of the puck. By the time the Duck lifted his head to assess his path to the goal, Rafe’s stick was already on a trajectory for Dekker’s.

  He tapped the stick, stole the puck, and continued in a smooth slide, then sprinted toward the Ducks’ goal with his complete and utter focus on the goalie and every subtle move of his head, body, and limbs. Rafe kept his mind open until the very last split second, and when the goalie put more weight into his left foot, that was the side Rafe shot toward, aiming for the net’s upper corner with pinpoint focus.

  In his head, Rafe swore he heard absolutely nothing but the clack, clack, swoosh of the puck as it hit the top pipe, the side pipe and finally the net.

  Fucking A.

  A stream of adrenaline mixed with triumph and joy. The first real spurt of joy he’d felt since he’d left Mia’s bed that morning.

  Rafe laughed and glided into the corner, turning back toward center ice. But he didn’t get far before his other four teammates body slammed him in a group hug while a few baseball hats—about one percent as many as in their home arena—flew onto the ice. With the buzzers and bells and mixed response from the Anaheim crowd, Rafe didn’t hear much of what the guys said. But Tremblay pulled them off the ice for the last thirty seconds of the period.

  And as he followed the others through the small doorway into the box, Rafe glanced toward the stands for the first time since the game started. Mia’s and Joe’s seats were just a few rows up and to the right of the bench, and when he scanned past the fans waving their hands and taking pictures, he found Mia. Her smile was waiting for him. And the sight of it, filled with something very different, something intimate and special, something he’d never seen there before, made him feel like a flock of birds had been released in his belly.

  He stepped onto the rubber mat of the box, and something hard hit him in the chest. Rafe’s attention tore back to the bench. Tate pushed Rafe so hard, Rafe stumbled back. He almost tripped right back onto the ice through the open doorway, but caught himself on the half wall at the last second, saving their team from a penalty.

  “What the fuck?” Rafe yelled, half-pissed, half-confused. Then the look on Tate’s face registered—fury. You-betrayed-me-in-the-worst-way rage. I-want-to-kill-you ferocity.

  And Rafe’s stomach took a free fall.

  The final buzzer for the period filled the stadium.

  Tate leaned in until they were nose to nose and rasped, “Yeah, Rafe, what the fuck?”

  And Tate checked Rafe’s shoulder hard, slamming him against the wall as Tate turned, leading the team into the locker room for the break.

  Rafe stood there a second, his mind racing as the other guys filed by. He felt their strange looks, felt the tension vibrating among the players. And he hated it. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

  Tremblay stopped beside Rafe, bit out a short “This isn’t the place to screw around. No matter how good you’re playing.”

  Then fell in with the guys and disappeared through the hall.

  All the warmth and joy Rafe had just felt looking up at Mia iced over. He couldn’t bring himself to glance at her. Even knowing she’d seen the confrontation. Especially knowing she’d seen the confrontation.

  Beckett was the last in line and gripped Rafe’s shoulder. “Something I need to know?”

  Rafe felt sick as he met Beckett’s gaze. “I have a feeling everyone’s going to know soon, whether they should or not.”

  He turned into the hallway with Beckett following and used the short walk that should have been filled with triumph and excitement to shore himself up for pain—both physical and emotional. The kind of pain he suffered when he’d played a truly shitty game. Ironic he’d be subjected to it when he was playing his best.

  The coach was already talking when Rafe turned into the open space outfitted for the visiting team. Rafe immediately searched for Tate and found him pacing in front of his locker space that adjoined Rafe’s. With one hand rubbing his mouth, his fingers distorting his lower lip like a cartoon character, Tate scowled at the floor as if he were contemplating setting it on fire.

  “That’s the way to win battles, Rafe.” Tremblay’s words pulled Rafe’s gaze from Tate. But the coach was already redirecting his words to the team at large. “Go right at them. Simplify the game. We’ve been the better team throughout the playoffs, and we just need to hold on to it. Don’t rattle, just keep playing our game just the way you’re doing it. Nothing changes here, boys.”

  Everyone offered their version of agreement in a hoot or shout or affirmative, and Tremblay turned for his office. He smacked Rafe’s shoulder on the way past. “Way to attack the net, kid.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Rafe said, pulling his gaze from Tate again to glance at Tremblay, muttering a distracted “Thanks, Coach.”

  His mind drifted back to Tate and what in the hell he was going to say to calm him down as he watched his coach disappear down the hall. Rafe could lie. Tate was only making an
assumption based on a look he’d seen between him and Mia. But that would only make coming out with the truth later more hurtful. More damaging.

  What a cluster—

  Rafe caught movement in the corner of his eye, but before he could turn his head that direction, Tate shoved Rafe against a cement block wall.

  Air surged from of Rafe’s lungs. He let his helmet and stick fall to the floor but didn’t drop his gloves. The force wasn’t anything new, but force in this setting stunned him. More so because the man using Rafe’s jersey to hammer him repeatedly against the wall was his best friend. Only Tate didn’t look anything like the friend Rafe had always known. His eyes were so dark, they were almost black. His expression so tightly etched with fury, he looked a decade older. But it was the pain there that cut Rafe. A pain he had only seen hints of since Lisa walked out on Tate. One he was realizing now ran a hell of a lot deeper.

  A river of regret as black and thick as tar opened down the middle of Rafe’s chest. “Tate,” he rasped, “come on, let’s talk about—”

  Tate got a grip on Rafe’s shoulder pads and slammed him back so hard, Rafe’s vision blurred. Anger joined the regret inside, creating a volatile pain. Now he dropped his gloves, but he held it together. For Tate. For Joe. And for Mia.

  He took a breath. “Tate—”

  Tate jerked him nose to nose and with gritted teeth said, “You’re fucking her.”

  The locker room went quiet. Icily, eerily silent.

  All the sickness in Rafe’s gut twisted. He wanted to lie so bad, it was all he could think about. “It’s not…”. Don’t. Don’t lie. “It’s not like that.”

  Tate released his jersey with one hand, and that hand landed in Rafe’s gut as a fist. His stomach clenched behind the force of it. The shock of it. All his breath rushed from his lungs on a grunt, and his eyes watered. “Shit,” he wheezed. “Tate, listen—”

  “It’s either like that or it’s not. And I saw the way you looked at her.”

  Another punch landed closer to his kidney. The pain buckled him, and Rafe shoved Tate back with another curse. But Tate was livid. He slammed Rafe against the lockers again and smashed a cross to Rafe’s mouth.