Playing Hurt is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2018 by Kelly Jamieson
Excerpt from Big Stick by Kelly Jamieson copyright © 2018 by Kelly Jamieson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Big Stick by Kelly Jamieson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Ebook ISBN 9781101969410
Cover design: Diane Luger
Cover photograph: Elaine Nadiv/Shutterstock
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Chase
Chapter 2: Jordyn
Chapter 3: Chase
Chapter 4: Jordyn
Chapter 5: Chase
Chapter 6: Chase
Chapter 7: Jordyn
Chapter 8: Chase
Chapter 9: Jordyn
Chapter 10: Chase
Chapter 11: Jordyn
Chapter 12: Chase
Chapter 13: Jordyn
Chapter 14: Chase
Chapter 15: Jordyn
Chapter 16: Chase
Chapter 17: Jordyn
Chapter 18: Chase
Chapter 19: Chase
Chapter 20: Jordyn
Chapter 21: Chase
Chapter 22: Jordyn
Chapter 23: Chase
Epilogue: Chase
Acknowledgments
By Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
Excerpt from Big Stick
Chapter 1
Chase
CHICAGO
OCTOBER
“Holy shit. She’s following me on Twitter.” I stared down at my phone, standing in the locker room of the Moen’s Center following our game-day skate.
“Who is?”
“Jordyn Banks.” I looked up at my teammate and buddy Cam Brickley, aka Brick, and grinned. “Holy shit.”
“Did you even need to ask who?” Bomber (real name James Baumgartner—hockey players have a long tradition of weird nicknames) slammed his locker door shut. “Chaser’s fucking obsessed with Jordyn Banks.”
“No, I’m not.” I studied her profile picture on my phone. Damn. She was so hot…the picture was one I’d seen before—black and white, long pale hair waving all around her small face, and those signature big eyes all dark with makeup. I also followed her on Instagram, where she posted tons of pictures and had millions of followers. “I like her music.”
I was lying about not being obsessed with her. Okay, calm down, I wasn’t a creepy stalker. She was famous—a singer, R&B/pop, with an amazing voice. She’d just released her first album this past summer, and it had hit number one on Billboard right away. She’d actually been famous even before that because of a musical TV show she’d starred in as a teenager, but her music was really good, not some kind of bubblegum pop. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was creeping on a random woman. I was probably one of a million other guys stalking her, ha.
And it was true, I did like her music. She really did have an amazing voice. Yeah, yeah, she was hot AF, which was definitely part of the, er, interest, but I genuinely liked her music.
“She’s a hockey fan,” Brick said. “She probably follows all of us.”
“Bullshit. She doesn’t follow you.” I lifted my chin. “I have way more followers than you.”
Not that we were competitive or anything. Okay, we were competitive about pretty much everything. The other day I bet Brick that I could win five face-offs in a row against him, and I won, which meant he had to take off my skates for me every day for a week. It was so sweet sitting on the bench with Brick unlacing and removing my skates.
“How many Twitter followers do you have?” Bomber asked.
I shrugged, then swiped at my phone to check. “Hundred forty-six thousand.”
Brick made a face, and I knew I had him beat. “But still, maybe she does follow me.”
He was busting my balls. “I don’t care. She’s following me. I better thank her for the follow.”
I started to thumb in a tweet.
“Whoa, hold up, dude.” Brick grabbed for my phone. “Not so fast. That’ll come across as desperate.”
I scowled at him as I wrestled my phone back. “Okay, fine, I’ll do it later.”
“As if she cares,” Bomber said. We all started walking out of the arena. “She probably has way more Twitter followers than you. I’m sure she never even reads her replies. Who’d have time for that?”
That was probably true. She had about ten million followers compared to my paltry hundred thousand. I didn’t have time to read all my mentions. Some of them were haters, which I ignored. A lot of them were women coming on to me, sometimes subtle and friendly, other times sending me naked or bikini-clad selfies, calling me “Daddy.” Ugh. It was fun trash-talking my buddies on social media, and I followed some interesting people: other pro athletes—I was a big football fan and one of my buddies I grew up with was a pro golfer; of course other hockey players and people in the business; some political commentators because lately I’d gotten interested in politics; and some comedians because they made my timeline funny. Plus Emily Ratajkowski (sue me, she’s easy on the eyes). And Jordyn Banks.
Social media could be fun and educational, but it could also be dangerous. We were all one bad decision away from being social media pariahs, having our reputations trashed and abuse heaped on us. It happened to a teammate a couple of years ago, and after that we were all given training on what and what not to say. That was why I didn’t post a lot, preferring to read what others wrote. I’d done my time in the negative spotlight, and I didn’t want to go back there.
“Isn’t she dating that British dude?” Bomber said. “The boy band guy.”
I tried to stop myself from scowling. I’d seen the pictures of them together online. “I think they broke up. Dude can’t sing. Those guys were just a manufactured band cashing in.”
“You’re jealous of a skinny guy who dances and sings?” Brick slung an arm around my neck and pulled me into a headlock. “Sad, man.”
“Fuck off.” We pretended to punch each other, then separated when we reached our cars.
It was game day, and we’d just finished our morning skate and the lunch the Aces team provided us. Everyone else was heading home for their game-day nap. I was going home, but not to nap. Yeah, it was a tradition that most guys didn’t want to mess with, but it was a habit I’d never gotten into. The only time I had a nap was if I’d stayed out too late the night before, but that didn’t happen much these days.
I was getting old.
I snorted at that as I climbed into my Maserati. Don’t judge me, it was a reward to myself for signing a contract that I’d been worried I wasn’t going to get.
/> Anyhoo…I’d just turned twenty-five. Not exactly old, but I was considered a veteran on the Aces team, given I’d been playing professional hockey for six years now—though this was only my third season with the Aces.
I had something of a wild past. When I was younger, the whole rich and famous thing went to my head a bit. When I got drafted I moved to the Big Apple, after growing up in a small Canadian city, and got into the club scene. I was one of the youngest guys on the team, and I didn’t know anybody else in New York, so after games they’d go home to their wives and kids, and I’d go out. Unfortunately, team management hadn’t appreciated the shirtless pictures that showed up online and all the attention that got, and I ended up getting traded.
In hindsight, my lifestyle probably did affect my performance. After the trade, I got serious pretty quick. I hated screwing up, and I hated feeling like I’d let people down. No way I was going to go down that path again. Hockey is my life, and my career is everything to me, so when I had a chance to start over in Chicago I made sure I took advantage of it.
That kind of reputation sticks with you though. And it kinda hurt, because we’d won the Stanley Cup the first year I’d played for New York, but after that, management traded away a lot of players and we struggled the next two years. It wasn’t all on me.
I was enough of a team player to know that I did have some responsibility though, and hard enough on myself to be dissatisfied with how I’d played after being drafted eighth overall. And all those news stories about me underperforming in the playoffs those years, the rumors that they’d made me stay in a hotel so I couldn’t go out at night, still pissed me off if I thought about them.
So I tried not to think about them.
But this year…there was chatter about me. I wasn’t playing my best, and people were talking, wondering if I was sliding back into my drinking, party-going ways. (Just want to be clear here—I never did drugs, beyond the odd toke on a fatty.)
It was frustrating to me too.
While I waited for my car to warm up in the frosty October Chicago air, I pulled my phone out and opened Twitter again. I found the notification that Jordyn was following me and brought up her profile again. My fingers hovered over the screen. Should I send her a direct message? Or a public message?
Decisions, decisions.
After weighing which option seemed friendlier and less stalkerish, which was more likely to be seen by her, which she was more likely to respond to, I had no fucking clue, so I went public. Thanks for the follow. Love your music. I tapped the backspace key. Like your music. Tap tap tap tap tap. Enjoy your music.
Fuck. I was so lame. I left it at “enjoy,” tossed my phone onto the passenger seat, and roared out of the parking lot.
Chapter 2
Jordyn
LOS ANGELES
OCTOBER
I settled on the couch in my rented Mulholland Drive house, alone, with a big bowl of popcorn, my phone, and the remote, ready to watch my two favorite teams take on each other. The Los Angeles Condors were playing the Aces tonight in Chicago.
I grew up in Chicago, so I still had a soft spot for the Aces, but I’d been living in Los Angeles—mostly—since I was sixteen, so they had to be the team I cheered for.
I’d been working so hard lately. My first solo album came out in August, but that hadn’t been my first album ever. I’d recorded an album of songs from Piper Reed, the TV show I’d starred in as a teenager, and I’d also voiced the role of Princess Paloma in a Disney movie and recorded the soundtrack for that. After my solo album released, I opened three concerts for Talkative Signal, a super popular band from the UK, to promote it, and then I went on a mini-tour of my own all over the country, which had just ended. I was so thrilled by how well my album was doing and the attention I was getting, I really was, but I was also happy to have some alone time.
Much as I loved performing and feeding off the energy of a crowd, I needed my downtime too, and I knew this would be short-lived because I had more PR stuff coming up—TV appearances and magazine interviews and photo shoots, and the American Music Awards next month. I was nominated for New Artist of the Year—oh my God!—and I was scheduled to perform. Plus, I’d been writing songs for my next album, which I was supposed to start recording in January, along with a few other artists that the A&R rep at my record label had lined up—big stars who would really help get my name out there.
Anyone seeing me right now would shake their head…home alone, dressed in rolled-up sweatpants and a loose hoodie, my hair in a messy bun, no makeup—and a big bowl of popcorn on my lap.
That wasn’t the glam image everyone would think about Jordyn Banks.
Sometimes the whole public-persona thing got exhausting. Like it was taking over my whole life. My whole being. Sometimes it was nice to just be me, the real me. The me who was a slob. The me who constantly lost my phone and keys and, well, everything, and the me who yelled at the TV when I was alone watching sports. There weren’t very many people in the world I could just be the real me with. I’d learned that hard lesson.
I snuggled deeper into the squishy couch cushions to watch the opening face-off.
I loved hockey.
My dad was a huge hockey fan, and he used to take me to Aces games when I was little. I guess that’s where I became a fan. My dad loved football and baseball too, and I watched those sports as well, but hockey was my favorite. My mom liked the game, but she’d rather go to the theater or a concert. And I guess that was where I got my love of music from. Why couldn’t you like the arts and sports?
I picked up my phone because following the hashtags on Twitter was part of the fun of watching a game when you weren’t there live. I did love going to Condors games when I could. My friends, mostly in the music business, weren’t much into hockey, but they humored me and went with me, and maybe I was converting them.
Oh hey…Chase Hartman had replied to my tweet.
My assistant kept an eye on my mentions and replies and brought anything to me that she thought I should see, but I also had lists for different people I follow so I would see their tweets. Earlier I’d happened to see Chase’s name in something one of the Condors players had tweeted, so I’d impulsively followed him. I followed a few of the other Aces players—their captain, Marc Dupuis, and some of the veteran players like Duncan Armstrong and Jared Rupp. I remembered Marc Dupuis’s first season with the Aces. He was so handsome and serious and sexy with his French accent that all the women in Chicago went nuts for him. Including teenage me.
Nothing wrong with a harmless little celebrity crush. I’m not a puck bunny—the only hockey players I’ve ever actually met were some of the Condors one night at a Hollywood club. Life took me away from Chicago and the Aces, so I’d never met Marc Dupuis, and now he was married, but I still followed him on Twitter and Instagram, along with some of the other Aces and Condors players. And now Chase. I just love hockey.
Chase had tweeted at me, Thanks for the follow. Enjoy your music.
I wasn’t sure what that meant. Did it mean he enjoyed my music? It almost read like he was telling me to enjoy my own music. No, that couldn’t be right. Smiling, I’d messaged him back: I’d wish you luck tonight but you’re playing my team. GO CONDORS.
I smiled again now reading his reply. Condors about to become extinct again. #SorryNotSorry
Ha. Not only birds chirp. #GoCondors
He wouldn’t see that until after the game.
I brought up Chase’s profile. He was a good-looking guy—thick, dark hair that was short on the sides but fell over his forehead, a nose with a bit of a bump that might indicate it had been broken, full lips, and a strong square chin with a cleft.
Now I was curious about him. I diverted my attention away from the TV long enough to Google “Chase Hartman.” Age twenty-five—just a year older than me. Born in Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. Played
left wing, picked eighth overall in the draft—wow.
You’d think a guy who was picked that high in the draft would be a superstar. I leaned forward to watch the game more closely. He wasn’t on the ice this shift, but seconds later there was a line change and he was there, skating fast with the puck. He made a beautiful pass to a teammate who shot the puck. Too bad the Condors goalie made an amazing save.
Wait, wait…not too bad. I was supposed to be cheering for the Condors here.
This was the problem when you liked both teams.
I watched Chase Hartman play, and he was pretty good, but I thought he should shoot the puck more himself instead of passing it all the time. But what did I know. I thought I was pretty knowledgeable about hockey, but I was also smart enough to know how much I didn’t know. I knew too many assholes who criticized players for doing something dumb (let’s see you out there on a pair of skates going twenty miles an hour with a stick and a little black rubber disc and a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound defenseman bearing down on you, and see how well you do) or who criticized the coaches for face-off matchups or line pairings or scratching players (that’s why you’re watching from a couch and not from behind an NHL bench, buddy).
The Condors scored and I remembered to cheer, pumping a fist in the air. “Yeah!”
Even though I was alone, when I watched hockey I tended to be vocal about it.
I rubbed at my throat. That one yell had given me that weird tickling sensation that had been bugging me lately. Hopefully I wasn’t coming down with a cold or something, because I did not have time to be sick.
When the Aces scored the next goal and tied the game, and it was Chase Hartman who had set up the play, I found myself sitting there with a happy grin on my face. My gaze landed on my phone. What the hell. I picked it up and tweeted at him. Nice goal. But still #GoCondors!
Playing Hurt_An Aces Hockey Novel Page 1
