by Luis, Maria
If he’s trying to prove that he’s not a “big boy” but rather “all man,” he’s unfortunately missed his window of opportunity. I became aware of that particular fact years ago. Physically, he’s massive—and the energy he radiates, just by breathing, only makes him seem that much more intimidating.
“Take the gig,” he orders, voice low and compelling.
My chin lifts defiantly. “Regardless of how you feel about the show, the fact remains that Carter Photography wouldn’t even be on Sports 24/7’s radar if it weren’t for you needing me behind the camera.”
“And yet, me needing you entails a six-figure check landing in your bank account. Explain to me how you’re on the bad end of this bargain again?”
Right or wrong, Jackson’s manipulation of Sports 24/7’s interest makes me feel . . . God, it makes me feel as though I’m right back where I started, scraping together a business on the back of someone else’s success—his success, considering he was the one to beg the Blades’ management to let me photograph the team in the first place. More specifically, though, it’s a sharp reminder of the sacrifices I made to be with him.
Dropping out of Cornell—to my grandmother’s horror—so that I could follow him to Boston after the Bruins drafted him.
Finishing my degree online at UMass Boston, so that I never worried over missed classes when I flew across the country to each and every one of his games.
Marriage is compromise in its greatest form. Our last-hurrah therapist told us that, but she was wrong. Marriage is compromise, yes, but never at the expense of who you are. Which is where I failed. Me, not Jackson. I lost myself so deeply that by the time I realized there might be a problem, I was already on the verge of drowning.
Jackson wasn’t a bad husband.
He was good down to his core; always wanting to help others, to help me, but in living within his shadow for so many years, I became a returning secondary character on the Jackson Carter Show, simply known as “the wife.”
Now I’m “the ex-wife,” so I guess not much has changed.
Taking the Getting Pucked gig is the equivalent of starting all over again and I can’t do that.
Not even for him.
Meeting his gaze, I say the words that I know he doesn’t want to hear: “I don’t need the six-figure check. Not everything is about the money.”
I turn on the balls of my feet, ready to get the hell out of his condo before I do something I’ll regret—like caving in to the vulnerability heating Jackson’s gaze.
I don’t get far.
A masculine hand wraps around my forearm, dragging me to a halt. Limiting my escape. And then he’s right there, big body popping my personal bubble, spinning me around so that, to make eye contact, I’ve got to tip my head back, back, back because I’m so dang short.
Dark eyes flit over my face, searching. “If it’s not about the money, then what are you lookin’ for?”
“Happiness.” I clasp my hand over his and peel his fingers off my arm, one by one, until I’m free. “It’s staring at yourself in the mirror and knowing that you got to where you are on your own merits and not on bargained favors. It’s knowing”—I draw in a deep, grounding breath—“that sometimes what’s in your heart and what’s in your head aren’t the same, but you’re making a life change . . . you’re going to let reason take charge, for once, instead of the damn organ that’s failed you countless times over.”
His expressionless mask cracks. Splintering right there in front of me as he reaches for me and I scoot out of the way. “Fuck, Holly—”
“All these years,” I say, cutting him off, “I’ve done what’s best for you. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret us. But I can’t—I can’t be at your beck and call when you need me to put out your fires. We’re not married. We’re not together. And it’s unfair of you to ask me to take one for the team simply because you think I’ll be swayed by dollar signs.”
Hurt creeps into my heart and I stamp it mercilessly into the ground. “I can’t be won over by a check, no matter how big. There’s no amount of money in the world that would convince me that it’s a good idea to put myself back in your orbit day in and day out. We didn’t work, Jackson, and I won’t risk getting my heart all tangled up in you again.”
I don’t give him the opportunity to convince me otherwise.
What good would it do, anyway?
I don’t regret loving Jackson Carter.
I don’t even regret giving him every last corner of my soul, knowing that the alternative would mean giving up everything that I am now, my role as CEO of Carter Photography being at the top of the list. Perspective and personal growth, I try to remind myself when the gray clouds cling a little too tightly to my soul, is worth the heartache.
But I’ll be damned if I take a backseat to Jackson’s career all over again, just because he needs me to act as “interference” against a TV production he doesn’t want sniffing around his personal life. I’ve had enough perspective and personal growth for one lifetime, thank you very much.
The money isn’t worth it.
The potential fame isn’t worth it.
Losing my heart, being sucked back into the downward spiral of depression, isn’t worth it.
Not with Jackson. Not again.
5
Jackson
“Let’s do another take. Jackson, can you, uh—”
The director’s sentence withers when I glare in his direction, my helmet clasped between my hands as I rest my elbows on the boards at TD Garden.
First day of production for Getting Pucked and I’m this close to blowing my lid. Instead of training, me and my guys have been forced into a rotation of introductions for the camera. Some of my teammates, like Marshall Hunt, are natural-born charmers—they grin and speak eloquently and they sure as hell don’t lose their temper.
The crew saved me for last. Either they’re a bunch of sadists or they know I only signed the contract because I wouldn’t let my team down, and have decided to punish me for, quite literally, holding up the show.
The director of photography, whose name I don’t remember, but who looks like he’s spent the last twenty years in the arctic tundra, tries again. “Listen, Mr. Carter.” Desperation thickens his voice as he slides a glance to his camera guy. “I’m sure you’d like to go home, right? We just need you to cooperate with us. Give us your name, hometown, the position you play, and two facts you think the fans will be surprised to learn about you.”
As captain for the Blades, I’m never the troublemaker.
I enforce the rules.
I keep the shitheads in line, twenty-four-seven.
I lead by example, even when that means I come across looking like an arrogant, uptight prick.
But there’s nothing about Getting Pucked that sits right with me. I’m not interested in having the curtains pulled back on my life. Some shit isn’t meant to be aired out as dirty laundry, particularly when said dirty laundry could end my career before I’m ready to retire my skates.
The fact that the show won’t televise later this year but within the same week as filming? That’s the cherry on top of the shittastic sundae I’m being forced to swallow.
Welcome to the hell that is Steven Fairfax’s ingenious creation, where the NHL blends with reality TV and emerges feeling like a cross between Survivor and Real World: Road Rules.
Sensing Coach’s eyes on me from across the rink, I grit out a strained smile and attempt to play nice. “Hey.” Fuck, man, not so growly. I clear my throat. Try again. “I’m Jackson Carter. Texas-bred, and captain for the Blades.”
The director’s pale face glows with excitement as he flashes me two thumbs-up like I’m a toddler learning how to shit in the toilet for the first time.
Go, me.
I angle my body to face the camera fully. “I’m on the frontline, in the right-wing slot.”
The director nods eagerly, then rolls his hand in a keep going gesture. He flips me the peace sign, which I gues
s is his reminder for “two facts.”
Unblinking, I meet the camera lens head-on. “Two random facts about me . . . when I’m home alone at night, there’s nothing I like more than to play a little My Heart Will Go On from Celine Dion while I soak in a bubble bath of champagne.” The director’s grin falters, and I press onward, completely straight-faced. “I also recently adopted a pig named ‘Fact Number Two.’ Don’t know what happened to Number One.” I grin. “Might have turned out to be someone’s dinner.”
“Cut!”
I shove away from the boards, my skates gliding across the ice.
I should apologize for being a Class-A dick—if my Texan mom heard me just now, she’d waste no time in pinching my ear and giving it a hard twist. An apology isn’t what escapes when I ask the director, “Think y’all can work with what I gave you?”
I think I’ve been played.
No shit, tears are gathering in his eyes. Tears that he doesn’t bother to sop up with the sleeve of his cashmere sweater as he clamps a hand over his heart in full Pledge of Allegiance mode. “Yes. Oh, so much yes. Have you been to her show in Vegas? It’s amazing. My husband is obsessed. We’ve gone four times already this year and I swear to you, it feels like a religious awakening each and every time.”
My shit-eating grin, already dying a slow death, disintegrates completely when he tacks on, “I’m sure fans will be so pleased to discover that you know the worth of Celine Dion. Just imagine the new types of fan-mail you’ll get after the pilot episode. Brilliant, Carter, just brilliant!”
He winks, tears magically gone, and I briefly deliberate on the ramifications of ramming my fist into his smirking face.
“You a fan of Celine now, Carter? Never would have pegged you for a romantic.”
At Andre Beaumont’s dry tone, I crane my neck to stare up at the Garden’s ceiling, hundreds of feet above the ice. Cupping my helmet between my hands, I lift it to my chest like a hockey version of a rosary bead, and mock-pray, “God, give me strength to not take this man’s hockey stick and shove it so far up his ass, he’ll be waddling for weeks.” A minute pause. “Amen.”
Beaumont’s shoulder collides with mine as he skates past. “Asshole.”
Shuffling my helmet to one hand, I flip him the bird with the other. “Could have said the same for you. And here I was thinkin’ that you’d still be in your post-honeymoon bliss, attitude checked at the door.”
The NHL’s top enforcer blinds me with a rare grin. “Boston feeds the darkness of my soul—I can’t stop the assholery the minute I come back, any more than you can stop being a prick twenty-four-seven.”
I don’t want to laugh but I do. It boils deep in my chest, and as the blades of my skates push against the ice to propel me forward, I mutter, “I’m honestly surprised you’re even down for any of this.”
Beaumont’s dark head swivels in my direction. “Getting Pucked, you mean?”
“Yeah.” After we unhinge the waist-high door in the boards, it’s a matter of trucking it through the tunnel to the locker rooms where we’re due to have a meeting with Coach Hall sans TV production. Thank fuck. “It wasn’t that long ago that you had your own showdown with the media. Can’t imagine why you’d voluntarily sign up for this shit after everything that happened.”
Hockey stick perched over his shoulder, Beaumont ambles down the tunnel like a Viking gearing up for battle instead of a hockey player off to face the people who sign our paychecks. “I didn’t want to, but Zoe . . .” He shrugs, switching the stick to the other shoulder. “Zoe made a good point—I’ll probably be out of the game by the time we have kids. Can’t play forever, eh? Anyway, she thinks doing something like this will be good for the little Beaumonts one day. They’ll be able to see this part of my life, and maybe I’ll be lucky enough to have a son or a daughter who loves the sport as much as I do.”
Kids. Family.
My heart gives a dull thud, like a knock on my ribcage to remind myself that I’m not, in fact, dead. Since my divorce, I’ve certainly felt that way a time or two. Throat tight, I grind out, “Yeah, makes sense.”
All my teammates have their own reasons for signing the Getting Pucked contracts, and I need to get my head out of my own ass before I screw it up for them. Do it for your boys. Don’t be a goddamn prick.
I swallow, hating the panic that twines down my spine like claws scraping into my flesh. All it would take is one wrong clip being shown on TV to change the trajectory of my plans for the season. One too nosey cameraman who digs a little too deep, and suddenly I won’t be known as the Badass of Hockey anymore but the player who—
Inhaling sharply, I breathe through the spike of anxiety and focus on palming the locker-room door open.
The guys are mostly changed out of their uniforms already, which the producers wanted us in for the sake of “TV authenticity,” whatever the hell that means. They nod as I pass them, some offering a two-fingered salute and others giving me a curt chin-nod.
These guys are my family, but as captain, I operate out of a strange focal point. They respect me. They’ll cover me on the ice and are always up for grabbing dinner or playing poker. But at the end of the day, they’ve got to own up to me. I’m the gateway to the big guns on the board, which means that while my teammates will do anything for me, the slight fracture in our relationship won’t ever be mended.
It’s the one thing I miss most about life before the “C” was stitched onto my jersey. When you’re Captain, there’s a whole lot of ass-kissing going around. Except for Beaumont and our assistant captain, Duke Harrison—they don’t give a fuck who I am, and, in return, they’re as close to brothers as I’ll ever have in the rink. Outside of it, too.
I plunk my helmet onto the top shelf in my stall, next to my gloves, then reach behind my neck to fist my jersey and pull it over my head. Slipping the material onto the metal hook, I focus on removing the rest of my uniform and pads instead of the low pulse of anxiety that’s yet to dissipate. No one spares me a second glance, and I’m sure that to my teammates I look the same as always: stone-faced, reserved, completely in control.
It’s better for team morale if that’s all they see.
My ass is on the bench, my shoulders hunched as I unlace my skates when I hear her.
Holly.
“Coach, always good to see you.”
Spine snapping straight, I make a mental note to slow the immediate rush of my breath as I wait for her to speak again. What the fuck is she doing here?
“Holly,” Coach says warmly, “I’m so glad you called.”
Called?
I give up any pretense of staying in my own zone and swing my legs over the side of the bench. Dressed in nothing but my compression shorts and Under Armour leggings, I watch as my ex-wife leans in for a hug from one of the NHL’s most popular coaches. Holly smiles prettily, all pink-painted lips and straight, white teeth, and then gives a small tug on the hem of her deep blue sweater. Tight skinny jeans complete the look, along with knee-high black boots. Slung across her chest is a dainty silver purse that doesn’t even look like it could fit my wallet.
I blink.
Blue sweater. Silver purse.
Blades’ colors.
What the hell is she doing?
Like she’s got a homing beacon on me, her blond head turns in my direction. Blue eyes pin me in place. That is, before her gaze drops to my bare chest and lingers a touch too long. Call it primal nature or what have you, but I have the most absurd urge to stretch my arms above my head and gauge her reaction.
Since our divorce, exercise has been my singular outlet for every emotion under the sun. I’ve always been big—journalists don’t call me the Beast of the Northeast just because of that time I played with a shattered knee cap—but I know what I look like now. I know that all those extra curls and burpees and miles-long runs have thickened my arms and strengthened my core.
As her cheeks pinken, I drop my elbows to my thighs and kick up my chin to keep my gaze locked on h
er face. On her parted lips.
Her fingers lurch to the chain-link strap of her purse like she’s holding on for dear life. A heartbeat later, she whirls away, presenting me with her trim back and small, perky ass, and—
I slam my eyes shut.
Stop right there, man. Go no further.
A big body slides onto the bench beside me. “What’s Holly doing here?”
My fingertips dig into the spandex leggings, grounding myself against the heat sparking to life in my groin. To Duke, I mutter, “No idea. We don’t talk.”
“You did at Beaumont’s wedding,” comes his dry reply.
“Let me rephrase. We don’t talk on a regular—”
“Make sure your dicks are in your cups, gentlemen, we’ve got a visitor!”
At Coach Hall’s half-assed joke, my teammates grumble loudly about wanting the opportunity to let their dicks fly free, but everyone laughs, and no one takes offense, least of all my ex-wife. They know Holly well—she’s been the lead photographer behind the Blades for a number of years now. She’s done engagement pictures, graduation photos, and even baptism shoots for some of the new Blades babies.
But nothing has been scheduled for today, which means her presence comes with a giant question mark.
“Put them away,” she says now, mock-shielding her eyes, “I don’t need to see any of y’all’s micro-penises, trust me.”
“Having flashbacks to Carter’s small dick?” shouts an asshole from the opposite corner of the locker room.
Let me repeat: Beast of the Northeast.
Suffice as it is to say, the guys know I don’t put up with Holly being dragged into their gutter talk. Not when we were married; not now either.
Josh Kammer, as a rookie, hasn’t been dealt that lesson yet.
I tilt my head in his direction, my hands hanging loosely between my knees. “Josh?”
Beside me, Duke mutters “here we go” under his breath.
“Yeah, Cap?” the rookie left-wing asks blithely.
