Second Alarm (Firehouse Fourteen Book 5)

by Lisa B. Kamps

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  CROSSING THE LINE

  The Baltimore Banners Book 1

  Amber “AJ” Johnson is a freelance writer who has one chance of winning her dream-job as a full-time staffer: capture an interview with the very private goalie of Baltimore’s hockey team, Alec Kolchak. But he’s the one man who tries her patience, even as he brings to life a quiet passion she doesn’t want to admit exists.

  Alec has no desire to be interviewed—he never has, never will. But he finds himself a reluctant admirer of AJ’s determination to get what she wants…and he certainly never counted on his attraction to her. In a fit of frustration, he accepts AJ’s bet: if she can score just one goal on him in a practice shoot-out, he would not only agree to the interview, he would let her have full access to him for a month, 24/7.

  It’s a bet neither one of them wants to lose…and a bet neither one can afford to win. But when it comes time to take the shot, can either one of them cross the line?

  Turn the page for an exciting peek at CROSSING THE LINE, available now.

  “Oh my God, what have I done?” AJ muttered the phrase under her breath for the hundredth time. She wanted to rub her chest but she couldn’t reach it under the thick pads now covering her. She wanted to go home and curl up in a dark corner and forget about the whole thing.

  Me and my bright ideas.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  AJ snapped her head up and looked at Ian. The poor guy had been given the job of helping her get dressed in the pads, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Between her nervousness and the threat of an impending migraine, she was too preoccupied to muster much sympathy for anyone else right now.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and stood, wobbling for only a second on the skates. This was not how she had imagined the bet going. When she cooked up the stupid idea, she had figured on having a few days to at least practice.

  Well, not really. If she was honest with herself, she never even imagined that Alec would agree to it. But if he had, then she would have had a few days to practice.

  So much for her imagination.

  She took another deep breath then followed Ian from the locker room. It didn’t take too long for her gait to even out and she muttered a thankful prayer. She only hoped that she didn’t sprawl face-first as soon as she stepped on the ice.

  Her right hand clenched around the stick, getting used to the feel of it, getting used to the fit of the bulky glove—which was too big to begin with. This would have been so much easier if all she had to do was put on a pair of skates. She had never considered the possibility of having to put all the gear on, right down to the helmet that was a heavy weight bearing down on her head.

  She really needed to do something with her imagination and its lack of thinking things all the way through.

  AJ took another deep breath when they finally reached the ice. She reached out to open the door but was stopped by Ian.

  “Listen, AJ, I’m not even going to pretend I know what’s going on or why you think you can do this, but I’ll give you some advice. Shoot fast and low, and aim for the five and two holes—those are Alec’s weak spots. The five hole is—”

  “Between the legs, I know.” AJ winced at the sharpness of her voice. Ian was only trying to help her. He had no reason to realize she knew anything about ice hockey, and not just because she liked to write about it. She offered him a smile to take the bite from her words then slammed the butt of the stick down against the door latch so it would swing open. Two steps later and she was standing on a solid sheet of thick ice.

  AJ breathed deeply several times then slowly made her way to the other side of the rink, where Alec was nonchalantly leaning against the top post of the net talking to Nathan. They both watched as she skated up to them and came to a smooth stop. Alec’s face was expressionless as he studied her, and she wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. Probably nothing she really wanted to know.

  Nathan nodded at her, offering a small smile. She had to give the guy some credit for not laughing in her face when she asked his opinion on her idea. “Well, at least it looks like you’ve been on skates before. That’s a plus.”

  AJ didn’t say anything, just absently nodded in his direction. The carefree attitude she had been aiming for was destroyed by the helmet sliding down over her forehead. She pushed it back on her head then glanced at the five pucks lined neatly on the goal line. All she had to do was get one of them across. Just one.

  She didn’t have a chance.

  She pushed the pessimistic thought to the back of her mind. “So, do I get a chance to warm up or take a practice shot?”

  Alec sized her up then briskly shook his head. “No.”

  AJ swallowed and glanced at the pucks, then back at Alec. “Alrighty then. A man of few words. That’s what I like about you, Kolchak.” AJ though he might have cracked a smile behind his mask but she couldn’t be sure. She sighed and leaned on her stick, trying to look casual and hoping it didn’t slip out from under her and send her sprawling. “So, what are the rules?”

  “Simple. You get five chances to shoot. If you score, you win. If you don’t, I win.” Alec swept the pucks to the side with the blade of his stick so Nathan could pick them up. She followed the moves with her eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest.

  She had so much riding on this. Something told her that Alec was dead serious about being left alone if she lost. It had been a stupid idea, and she wondered if she would have had better luck at trying to wear him down the old-fashioned way.

  She studied his posture and decided probably not. He had been mostly patient with her up to this point, but even she knew he would have reached his limit soon.

  “All or nothing, then. Fair enough. So, are you ready?”

  AJ didn’t hear his response but thought it was probably something sarcastic. She sighed then turned to follow Nathan to the center line, her heart beating too fast as her feet glided across the ice. She shrugged her shoulders, trying to readjust the bulk of the pads, and watched as Nathan lined the pucks up.

  He finished then straightened and faced her, an unreadable expression on his face. He finally grinned and shook his head.

  “I have no idea if you know what you’re doing or not, but good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Nathan walked across the ice to the bench and leaned against the outer boards, joining a few of the other players gathered there. AJ wished they were gone, that they had something better to do than stand around and watch her make a fool of herself.

  Well, she had brought it on herself.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, pushing everything from her mind except what she was about to do. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was on the first puck. Heavy, solid…nothing more than a slab of black rubber…

  Okay, so she wasn’t going to have any luck becoming one with the puck. Stupid idea. AJ had never understood that whole Zen thing anyway.

  She swallowed and began skating in small circles, testing her ankles as she turned first one way then another, testing the stick as she swept it back and forth across the ice in front of her. Not too bad. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten—

  “Sometime today would be nice!”

  AJ winced at the sarcasm in Alec’s voice and wished she had some kind of comeback for him. Instead she mumbled to herself and got into position behind the first puck. She didn’t even look up to see if he was ready. Didn’t ask if it was okay to start, she just pushed off hard and s
kated, the stick out in front of her.

  This was her one shot, she couldn’t blow it.

  PLAYING THE GAME

  The York Bombers Book 1

  Harland Day knows what it’s like to be on rock bottom: he was there once before, years ago when his mother walked out and left him behind. But he learned how to play the game and survived, crawling his way up with the help of a friend-turned-lover. This time is different: he has nobody to blame but himself for his trip to the bottom. His mouth, his attitude, his crappy play that landed him back in the minors instead of playing pro hockey with the Baltimore Banners. And this time, he doesn’t have anyone to help him out, not when his own selfishness killed the most important relationship he ever had.

  Courtney Williams’ life isn’t glamorous or full of fame and fortune but she doesn’t need those things to be happy. She of all people knows there are more important things in life. And, for the most part, she’s been able to forget what could have been—until Harland gets reassigned to the York Bombers and shows back up in town, full of attitude designed to hide the man underneath. But the arrogant hockey player can’t hide from her, the one person who knows him better than anyone else. They had been friends. They had been lovers. And then they had been torn apart by misunderstanding and betrayal.

  But some ties are hard to break. Can they look past what had been and move forward to what could be? Or will the sins of the past haunt them even now, all these years later?

  Turn the page for a preview of PLAYING THE GAME, the launch title of The York Bombers, now available.

  The third drink was still in his hand, virtually untouched. He glanced down at it, briefly wondered if he should just put it down and walk away. It was still early, not even eleven yet. Maybe if he stuck it out for another hour; maybe if he finished this drink and let the whiskey loosen him up. Or maybe if he just paid attention to the girl draped along his side—

  Maybe.

  He swirled the glass in his hand and brought it to his mouth, taking a long sip of mostly melted ice. The girl next to him—what the fuck was her name?—pushed her body even closer, the swell of her barely-covered breast warm against the bare flesh of his arm.

  “So you’re a hockey player, right? One of Zach’s teammates?”

  Her breath held a hint of red wine, too sweet. Harland tried not to grimace, pushed the memories at bay as his stomach lurched. He tightened his grip on the glass—if he was too busy holding something, he couldn’t put his arm around her or push her away—and glanced down. The girl looked like she was barely old enough to be in this place. A sliver of fright shot through him. They did card here, right? He wasn’t about to be busted picking up someone underage, was he?

  She had a killer body, slim and lean with just enough muscle tone in her arms and legs to reassure him that she didn’t starve herself and probably worked out. Long tanned legs that went on for miles and dainty feet shoved into shoes that had to have heels at least five inches tall. He grimaced and briefly wondered how the hell she was even standing in them.

  Of course, she was leaning against him, her full breasts pushing against his arm and chest. Maybe that was because she couldn’t stand in those ridiculous heels. Heels like that weren’t meant for walking—they were fuck-me heels, meant for the bedroom.

  He looked closer, at her platinum-streaked hair carefully crafted in a fuck-me style and held in place by what had to be a full can of hairspray—or whatever the fuck women used nowadays. Thick mascara coated her lashes, or maybe they weren’t even her real lashes, now that he was actually looking. No, he doubted they were real. That was a shame because from what he could see, she had pretty eyes, kind of a smoky gray set off by the shimmery eyeshadow coloring her lids. Hell, maybe those eyes weren’t even real, maybe they were just colored contacts.

  Fuck. Wasn’t anything real anymore? Wasn’t anyone who they really claimed to be? And why the fuck was he even worried about it when all he had to do was nod and smile and take her by the hand and lead her out? Something told him he wouldn’t even have to bother with taking her home—or in his case, to a motel. No, he was pretty sure all he had to do was show her the backseat of his Expedition and that would be it.

  Her full lips turned down into a pout and Harland realized she was waiting for him to answer. Yeah, she had asked him a question. What the hell had she asked?

  Oh, yeah—

  “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I play hockey.” He took another sip of the watery drink and glanced around the crowded club. Several of his teammates were scattered around the bar, their faces alternately lit and shadowed by the colored lights pulsing in time to the music.

  Jason pulled his tongue from some girl’s throat long enough to motion to the mousy barmaid for a fresh drink. His gaze caught Harland’s and a wide grin split his face when he nodded.

  Harland got the message loud and clear. How could he miss it, when the nod was toward the girl hanging all over him? Jason was congratulating him on hooking up, encouraging him to take the next step.

  Harland took another sip and looked away. Tension ran through him, as solid and real as the hand running along his chest. He looked down again, watched as slender fingers worked their way into his shirt. Nails scraped across the bare flesh of his chest, teasing him.

  Annoying him.

  He put the drink on the bar and reached for her hand, his fingers closing around her wrist to stop her. The girl looked up, a frown on her face. But she didn’t move her hand away. No, she kept trying to reach for him instead.

  “What’d you say your name was?”

  “Does it matter?” Her lips tilted up into a seductive smile, full of heated promise as her fingers wiggled against his chest.

  Did it matter? It shouldn’t, not when all Harland had to do was smile back and release her hand and let her continue. Or take her hand and lead her outside. So why the fuck was he hesitating? Why didn’t he do just that? That was why he came here, wasn’t it? To let go. Loosen up. Hook-up, get things out of his system.

  No. That may be why Jason and Zach and the others were here and why they brought him along—but that wasn’t why he was here. So yeah, her name mattered. Maybe not to him, not in that sense. He just wanted to know she was interested in him and not what he did. That he wasn’t just a trophy for her, a conquest to be bragged about to her friends in the morning.

  He gently tightened his hand around her wrist and pulled her arm away, out of reach of his chest. “Yeah. It matters.”

  Something flashed in her eyes—surprise? Impatience? Hell if he knew. He watched her struggle with a frown, almost like she didn’t want him to see it. Then she pasted another bright smile on her face, this one a little too forced, and pulled her arm from his grasp.

  “It’s Shayla.” She stepped even closer, running her hand along his chest and down, her finger tracing the waistband of his jeans.

  He almost didn’t stop her. Temptation seized him, fisting his gut, searing his blood. It would be easy, so easy.

  Too easy.

  Then a memory of warm brown eyes, wide with innocence, came to mind. Clear, sharp and almost painful. Harland closed his eyes, his breath hitching in his chest as the picture in his mind grew, encompassing soft brown hair and perfect lips, curled in a trembling smile.

  “Fuck.” His eyes shot open. He grabbed the girl’s hand—Shayla’s—just as she started to stroke him through the worn denim. Her own eyes narrowed and she made no attempt to hide her frown this time.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp, biting.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Her hand twisted in his grip. Once, twice. “Zach told me you needed to loosen up. That you were looking for a little fun.”

  Zach had put her up to this? Harland should have known. He narrowed his eyes, not surprised when the girl suddenly stiffened. Could she see his distaste? Sense his condemnation? He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear, his voice flat and cold.

  “Maybe you want me to whip my cock out
right here so you can get on your knees and suck me off? Have everyone watch? Will that do it for you?”

  She ripped her hand from his grasp and pushed him away, anger coloring her face. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  Harland straightened and fixed her with a flat smile. “You’re right. I am.”

  She said something else, the words too low for him to hear, then spun around and walked away. Her steps were short, angry, and he had to bite back a smile when she teetered to the side and almost fell.

  Loathing filled him, leaving him cold and empty. Not loathing of the girl—no, the loathing was all directed at himself. What the fuck was his problem?

  The girl was right: he was a fucking asshole. A loathsome bastard.

  Harland yanked the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out several bills, enough to cover whatever he’d had to drink and then some. He tossed down the watered whiskey, barely feeling the slight burn as it worked its way down his throat. Then he turned and stormed toward the door, ignoring the sound of his name being called.

  He should have gone home, back to the three-bedroom condo he was now forced to share with the sorry excuse that passed for his father. But he wasn’t in the mood to deal with his father’s bullshit, not in the mood to deal with anything. So he drove, with no destination in mind, needing distance.

  Distance from the spectacle he had just made of himself.

  Distance from what he had become.

  Distance from who he was turning into.

  But how in the hell was he supposed to distance himself…from himself?

  Harland turned into a residential neighborhood, driving blindly, his mind on autopilot. He finally stopped, eased the SUV against the curb, and cut the engine.

  Silence greeted him. Heavy, almost accusing. He rested his head against the steering wheel and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t need to look around to know where he was, didn’t need to view the quiet street filled with small houses that showed years of wear. Years of life and happiness and grief and torment.

  “Fuck.” The word came out in a strangled whisper and he straightened in the seat, running one hand down his face. Why did he keep coming here? Why did he keep tormenting himself?