by Luis, Maria
“Do me a favor and meet me an hour before practice tomorrow, will you?” The vets on the team all trade glances, and I don’t even bother to stand and get a good look at the kid. They all know I’m about to make his life hell tomorrow.
I like to think of it as a rite of passage to learning how not to be a dick.
And if he’s curled over a trash can after our one-on-one workout, heaving out his guts, because he’s had a miraculous understanding that playing for The Show means more than just putting on the uniform, then I’ll have done my job right.
Respect. Ambition. Teamwork.
Playing for the Blades means doing it all—and it’s the latter part of the trifecta that had me caving in to Sports 24/7 two weeks ago.
The rookie utters out an obliviously eager, “Fuck yeah, I’ll meet you, Cap!” and then even Coach is shaking his head like he can’t believe he drafted a naïve idiot like Josh Kammer.
Hopefully the kid’s a lot smarter when it comes to doing his job on the ice.
I look to Holly, a little surprised to find that her eyes are locked on me. Despite the twenty feet or so separating us, I don’t mistake the way she mouths, “Thank you.”
Familiar words I’ve confessed to no one but myself bubble up in my chest, each clawing their way up my throat in an attempt to pull free. In the end, I swallow over them all, shoving them down deep where they belong, and give her a curt nod that reveals nothing as to how I truly feel about her. About our broken vows.
She’d been right, what she said the other day.
We aren’t married. We aren’t together.
Having her back is where the line gets drawn, starting now.
“All right, you assholes,” says Coach, puffing out his chest in that way he only does when we’ve got company in the house, “how did all of you feel about Getting Pucked today?” When some of the guys begin to complain, he fingers the lanyard around his neck and sucks a whistle between his lips, blowing loudly. “That was a rhetorical question! I don’t give a damn if your panties are all in a twist”—his head pivots in my direction, eyes narrowed and accusing—“but I’ve got great news for you.”
“They’re getting us blow jobs?”
There’s a smack on the head, and then our star center, Marshall Hunt, grunts out, “Use your brain, Kammer, or I’ll make sure the only blow job you get for the rest of your life comes from a flushlight.”
Coach Hall keeps talking like the interruption didn’t even happen. “I know that some of you have reservations about Getting Pucked and I get it. We’re a team. We keep shit between us . . . our personal lives, the way we operate, failures and successes.” Coach steps forward, and I see some of the guys shift their legs so that he has ample space to pace back and forth, as he’s known to do. “In case you’ve been unconscious for the last two months, this is the year we take the Cup. This is the year we dominate every game and every pass and every save. I want it documented. I want other teams to worry. I want us to win.”
Unable to stop myself, I look to Holly again.
This time, she doesn’t glance in my direction.
Not when Coach ushers her forward.
Not when her fingers fist the chain of her purse strap where it hangs between her breasts.
Not when her Southern drawl rings loud and clear in the locker room: “I want all of those things, too, Coach. I’m already dreaming of taking pictures of y’all with the Cup.”
That earns her a roar of applause and even Kammer the Idiot hollers, “Fuck yeah, Mrs. Carter. Fuck yeah!”
She’s not Mrs. Carter, not anymore, but she smiles kindly at him anyway because that’s the sort of person she is. “I want more than that, though. I know y’all—I know your families and your wives and your kids and, hell, Henri, I even know your mother and she doesn’t even live in the States!”
Henri Bordeaux, our resident French-Canadian from Montreal, waves at her enthusiastically.
Holly waves back, the tension visibly lessening in her frame.
As for me, I can’t tear my gaze away from her, in part because I have a gut feeling that I know where she’s going with this and I have no idea what sort of game she’s playing.
The other part of me . . . Well, I’ve always loved watching her command a room. Always.
“I was approached by Sports 24/7, initially, to work on Getting Pucked as the director of photography. I turned that offer down.”
When the griping begins, my voice cuts through the noise like steel: “Let her talk.”
Silence greets me, and yet Holly still doesn’t look my way. She balls her hair up into a messy bun, which she leaves twisted at the nape of her neck. Like being in this room has skyrocketed her nerves as well as her temperature, and she’s in desperate need of cooling off.
I’m not enough of an idiot to assume that it’s my presence throwing her off.
Aside from the one or two times at the end of our marriage when she emotionally crumpled before me, she’s always been tougher than anyone else I know.
That toughness lifts her chin now as she says, “I’ve been through a lot with you guys over the last few years, and the more I thought about it, the worse I felt about not joining this venture with all of you.” She glances at Hall. “I’ve talked it out with Coach, as well as the other board members. They, in turn, approached Sports 24/7 with a compromise.”
A compromise.
My fingers slide down over the curve of my knees, my back hunching as I drop my gaze to the floor between my feet. I focus on a speck of dust on the thin, old carpet. Zero in on it as Holly informs us that while she won’t be in charge of the overall direction of the show, she and her team will personally be responsible for any one-on-one interviews that occur outside of the arena or practice. The ice will remain Sports 24/7’s domain.
Duke’s shoulder knocks into mine. “You good, man?”
I nod. “All good.”
Not quite the truth.
The truth is that I’m hovering in that space between grateful and agitated, my emotions a tumultuous wreck in much the same way that they’ve been for a year and counting.
She’s doing this for her career, jackass, not for you.
I wait as everyone gives Holly a hug on their way out the door.
And then I wait some more until Coach and our GM are shaking her hand and then following out behind the rest of my teammates.
I sit on that bench until Holly and I are the only ones left.
The door shuts behind Duke, leaving us alone, and then Holly and I are speaking over each other:
“We need to talk.”
“Can you please put a shirt on?”
6
Holly
A year without seeing Jackson’s bare chest is like a year without basking in sunlight.
You can get through it.
Hell, some days you might even relish the murky, gray skies and the heavy snowfall.
Until you get a glimpse of what you’ve been missing. It’s straight downhill from there.
“Can you please put a shirt on?”
I hear the words leave my mouth as I visually soak up the panther-like way Jackson’s hands move to the bench on either side of his hips. Jackson’s always been ripped, but this is . . . just wow. His arm muscles flex, the visible tendons that run along his biceps and down over his forearms visibly rippling. I bet if I were to Urban Dictionary “arm porn,” I’d find Jackson’s picture as the only definition.
Down, girl.
Dark eyes flit over my body, lingering on my thighs and waist before returning to my face. His grin is slow, knowing. “You look flushed, Holls. Feelin’ overheated?”
Unfortunately.
I trace my fingers over the cool metal strap of my purse and cling tightly to the linked chain. Since approaching Coach Hall, I’ve combed through this conversation with Jackson a million times over in my head. I’ve pictured him falling at my feet, grateful as all get-out for doing him a solid. I’ve imagined him turning ambivalent, lik
e I’m a little too late to the cause. I’ve even played out entire scenarios where he’s so overcome with happiness that he twirls me around in the air like I’m some sort of Disney princess on ice.
In none of those versions of the conversation, however, do the following words even consider being uttered: “Your nipples are hard.”
Except that’s what I say.
Your. Nipples. Are. Hard.
Oh my God, someone kill me.
Jackson’s dark brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Your nipples,” my stupid mouth utters without my support, “they’re hard as diamonds.”
Eyebrows still arched high, he sits up a little. Glances down at his chest and rock-hard abs. Like a woman possessed, I count each abdominal ridge as though I’m in pre-K and learning how to count on my fingers with the Count from Sesame Street: one delicious ab, two delicious abs, three delicious abs, ah ah ah.
Girl, you are losing it.
Jackson tilts his head, clearly trying to eyeball his pecs. “How many carats you thinkin’?”
I cannot believe I’m having this conversation right now.
I slam my eyes shut. “One.”
“Yeah?” The blatant humor in his voice is nearly tangible, and I get the feeling that he’s dragging his thumb along his bottom lip, trying to keep a lid on fully-blown laughter. “Just one?”
“Cubic zirconia. Off the shelf of Target.”
“Fitting,” he husks out, “since you’d live in Target if they let you.”
Too true. It’s hard to resist the lure of a place where I can literally buy whatever I want in one store. Growing up in Natchitoches, department stores weren’t a thing—not until I was older and already had one foot out the door. It’s not my fault if I choose to make up for lost time now.
The sound of the bench creaking under his weight has me opening my eyes again.
I watch as he searches through his stall for a shirt. He’s given me a prime view of the slope of his taut back and the faded pink lines that stretch horizontally across his flesh. Stretch marks, he once told me. Growth spurt after growth spurt as a kid carved their memories into his back forever.
For years, I’d trail my fingertips over each one, memorizing the feel of the raised, puckered flesh, so very different from the youthful pictures his mother once showed me.
Tall. Strapping. The Beast of the Northeast.
He slips a gray T-shirt over his head now, and the stretch marks and his hard nipples and the muscles-on-muscles disappear from sight.
“You changed your mind,” he says casually as he pulls a pair of sweats up his legs. I do my best to ignore the fact that if he were alone, he’d probably shuck off the compression shorts and leggings before pulling on a fresh set of briefs and jeans. He’s trying to be respectful. Maybe. I’m not sure. “Did you take the six-figs?” he asks.
I didn’t take anything from Sports 24/7. Not a dime.
Instead, I asked the Blades to cover the basic expenses required by my team. “This way you’ll know that I’m working for you and not some TV producer,” I’d told the board of directors for the Blades. “Ensuring that the guys come out of this with the same reputation as they had going in is my top priority.”
They accepted.
The pay was infinitely less, much closer to my usual rate, but I didn’t make a fuss.
I meet Jackson’s gaze. Try to get a read on his emotions. Finally, I answer his question with one of my own: “Would you believe me if I said no?”
For a moment, he says nothing at all. He ruffles his brown hair with one hand. Loops the string at his waistband into a tight knot. Then, “You’re an entrepreneur, Holls. A better one than I’ll ever be, which means I know you’re being compensated for the gig at whatever amount you feel makes it a worthwhile venture.”
He steps forward, and I’m ashamed to say that I step back in response. It’s instinctual, self-preservation at the most basic level. A need to keep him at arm’s length before the steel walls around my heart soften and cave in to futile hopes and desperate dreams. “This is what you wanted . . . for me to take the gig.”
Like we’re embarking on a dance that I never received an invitation to, he risks another step forward again. There’s a glint in his dark eyes, a silent challenge that dares me to hold my ground and let him approach.
I swallow, hard.
Then fasten my gaze on his broad chest as he ambles closer with his long-legged gait. “True,” he murmurs, “it was what I wanted. But I specifically remember you sayin’ that I’ve got to bank my own fires. Call me curious—what changed for you? And don’t tell me nothing. Don’t lie.”
He stops in front of me, less than a foot away, and I lift my gaze from his chest to his throat to his rugged face. “It’s exactly as I said to the team,” I lie smoothly, “it feels wrong not to take this step with y’all, considering I’ve been around for half the lifespan of the franchise.” I offer a delicate shrug. “I don’t want to live with regrets.”
Slowly, as though he doesn’t believe me, Jackson asks, “So, you’d regret not doing this?”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t regret leaving the heftier salary on the table?”
Without a doubt, he’s trying to get a read on me. He stands with his shoulders rounded and his gaze locked on my face, and I fight the urge to squirm under his unwavering stare. One heartbeat. That’s all I last before I’m averting my gaze and glancing past him to the row of stalls along the back wall.
“Holls.”
At the determined grit in his voice, I fold my arms across my belly and cup my opposite elbows. “Do we have to go there?” I draw in a sharp breath. “Can’t we just, for once, let a decision stand without dissecting it a million times over? I’m taking the job for the Blades organization. I’m doing this for me.” I fall back a step. “Not for you.”
My feet move without my conscious realization of it, backpedaling me all the way up until my hand is on the doorknob and my heart feels like it’s lodged in my throat.
“Tell me to my face that you’re not doing Getting Pucked for me.”
Like my body has a will of its own, my forehead gently kisses the cool, metal door that’s my escape from the locker room. My escape from him.
Why.
Why can’t he just let me leave without tearing all of our carefully sewn scars back open?
Why does he always have to push?
Shoulders straightening, I press my back to the door. “All those trophies you’ve won are inflating your ego, Jackson.” God, I hate the way he watches me now—like he knows what I don’t want to admit, like he’ll stop at nothing until I give him what he wants. Like he’s locked in the same hell that I’ve been in for the last year without him. “The universe doesn’t revolve around you.”
And because Jackson has never been good with boundaries, he eclipses the space between us until his masculine scent is infiltrating my senses and all I see are his broad shoulders and hard chest.
The back of my head collides with the door as I stare him down. “Stop pushing,” I edge out, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears. So pathetic. “For God’s sake, just—”
His thumb catches on my lower lip in a silent order for me to shut up.
I gulp at the intimate—unexpected—contact.
Audibly.
Ridiculously.
Embarrassment seeps into my veins.
And then I shove at his bulky chest, finally earning myself some much-needed breathing room. “You’re crossing boundaries.”
Jaw visibly clenched, he balls his hands into fists and sets them on his hips. On me, that pose would look like I’m throwing a tantrum. On him, a pro-hockey player and a man who has always kept a tight leash on his emotions, he looks like he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket.
I don’t blame him.
My temper is . . . God, it’s boiling.
Behind my back, I fist the doorknob. “You want the truth, Captain?” I lower my voice,
fury lacing every word. “The truth is that no matter how much I wish I could toss you to the wolves and not care, I can’t do that. Your words got to me, I admit it. They got to me so damn badly that I pulled out our wedding album and realized that, for better or worse, I can’t walk away from you when I should—when it’s in my best interest to lay down the sword and get the hell out of dodge. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
His lips part on a sharp breath. “Holls—”
“Don’t touch me.” Don’t touch me or I’ll shatter. I yank open the door with more force than necessary. “You want to know if I regret taking on Getting Pucked?” I shake my head, my hair catching on my chin. I shove the strands back with a rough, shaky hand. “I don’t regret working with the Blades. I don’t regret turning down that six-figure check. But I regret that even after all this time, I can’t tell you no.”
I don’t wait for him to say my name or plead his case before bolting out the door.
He pushed, and he got his answer, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll like what I had to say.
I can’t tell you no.
I’m going to need some crash 101 courses in doing just that if I plan to survive the next four months. Otherwise, I’ll be right back with the wine, the tears, and the Chinese food all over again.
And something tells me that I won’t survive another round of heartbreak with Jackson Carter.
7
Jackson
“Cap, take your turn or I’m forcing you to buy me some fancy-ass steak when we land in Nashville.”
My gaze snaps from the front of the airplane to Weston Cain, who’s seated across the aisle from me. With his suit undone at the neck and his blond hair slicked back all prim and tidy, you’d never guess that he has an obsession with the board game Battleship.
But here we are: him handing me my ass so swiftly my ships are going down in lightning speed, and me constantly glancing for sight of Holly making her way onto the team’s jet for our first preseason game against the Nashville Predators.
