He bumped up the volume on his earbuds, letting the chords from his favorite Zeppelin album rattle through his skull. He was both pumped and nervous for tonight. His dad had texted that he’d be there for warm-ups.
He always wanted to play well, to win for his team, but when his dad was in the crowd, he tried even harder. After his mom died, and his father became a shell, the only time Ben caught a glimpse of his formerly strong and affectionate father was when Ben was on the ice, especially when Ben was winning. That glimmer. That grin Ben remembered as a child. He’d wished that version of his dad would’ve made a permanent reemergence in the last fifteen years.
It was one of the reasons he never stayed in his hometown for very long. It hurt too damn much.
The music in one ear cut out as one of his earbuds was pulled out.
“Cheesy, you in there?” Harty asked, dropping the cord.
Ben glared. “What?”
“On the ice in five.” Harty dropped his voice down, “And Bugsy would love it if you’d pay attention when he’s talking.” Harty nodded toward the center of the room where their coach was staring at him. Eyes narrowed. Bugsy knew how Ben felt playing in his hometown, and he read Bugsy’s expression loud and clear—get your shit together.
Ben dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“Now that we’re all here, you guys need to focus. Minnesota is on their game. Ten-game winning streak that I would love to end, but their goalie is a wall. We’ve been over the tape. He’s sometimes weak on his blocker side. It’s rare, but it happens, so find your lane and take those shots.”
A chorus of agreement echoed around the room and they headed out to the ice, Ben and Harty the last guys down the tunnel.
“Back in your hometown. Let’s beat their asses,” Harty said with a grin.
Ben chuckled, and glided onto the ice. The surface under his feet felt like home and he glanced up to the third row, one section over from the corner. His dad’s favorite spot.
His dad raised his hand, a smile on his face, and Ben was ready to win. He’d give his father nothing less.
***
“Great game, Ben,” his father said four hours later after they placed their order at a pub near the team’s hotel. They’d beaten Minnesota three to two. It’d been close until the last five minutes, especially since they were down one of their top D. Finn had blocked another shot to the same ankle he’d taken a shot to a few weeks ago. Last time he’d been lucky. Tonight, they were pretty sure he’d broken it.
Hopefully they’d get some good news in the morning, but Ben was positive that they’d be calling up another defenseman from their AHL team in Portland. Not what he wanted to have happen as they headed into the post season. At least they’d pulled out a win. And with the team flying out tomorrow morning, he had time to grab dinner with his dad. Thank God the kitchen stayed open late, because they were just settling in after eleven, and he was starving.
“Thanks. Final game of the season, and with Calgary’s loss, we’re in second place and have home ice advantage for the first round,” he said, sipping the ginger ale the waiter had just returned with.
“I’m so proud of you, son,” his dad said, the warmth in his eyes making Ben feel like a kid getting his first goal again.
“Thanks, Dad,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d like. “Who are you going to root for if the final ends with us and Minnesota?” he asked, trying to lighten the conversation.
His dad laughed. It sounded harsh, like he didn’t do it enough. And Ben knew he hadn’t.
“Strikers, of course. I’d wear your jersey proudly if you ended up back here for the final,” his father said.
“Glad to see your loyalties are in the right place.”
“I have a feeling Minnesota is getting bounced in the first round. They barely got the wild card spot to begin with. Not the best season. New coach and it took a while,” his dad said.
“You never know what will happen in the post season. I’ve watched more teams surprise everyone by taking the Cup,” Ben said, hoping that this year was the Strikers’ turn to hoist all thirty-five glorious pounds.
“Think you’ll make it out for a playoff game?” he asked.
“We’ll see.”
That was a no.
Ben could count on his right hand the number of times his father had come out to visit him in California in the nine years he’d been there. The man liked his home. And the routines he had in his home.
The apple hadn’t fallen far from that tree, but Ben was learning to embrace some things he couldn’t control. Amanda was a shining beacon at the top of that list. He’d wished she’d been at the game tonight. He wanted to see her jumping up and down in the stands. She’d texted him after the game, congratulating him. Telling him she had a perfect victory gift for him when he got home.
And then she’d sent him another picture. She was looking over her shoulder—her bare shoulder—and pouting. She had a Strikers hat on and nothing else. The picture stopped before it got to her ass, but her petite curves were on full display, the angle revealing the side of her breast. She made his mouth water more than anything on the restaurant’s menu.
Amanda: Had to throw my jersey at the TV since you didn’t get me a hat trick. With a winking emoticon.
He’d almost dropped his phone when that message had come through. Thank God he’d just arrived at the pub so none of his teammates—or his dad—were around to see his jaw hit the floor.
He’d quickly shot back a reply.
Ben: I’ll never get another hat trick again. Having dinner with my dad, and as much as I LOVE the pic, I hope I can concentrate at dinner.
Amanda: Sorrynotsorry. Another winking face. Have fun at dinner and I’ll see you tomorrow night.
He’d chuckled, thought mundane thoughts about anything but her, adjusted his tightening pants, and headed into the restaurant. She was going to kill him.
“What’s with the smile?” his dad asked.
“What?” Ben rolled back his shoulders. Now wasn’t the time to think about that picture. She was in so much trouble when he got home.
Shit. That thought didn’t help either.
“When are you going to tell me about your girlfriend?” his father asked, and Ben was back to gaping like a fish.
“What? How do you know about her?”
“A few pictures online. She keeps popping up. You haven’t had a steady woman with you in public since Tara.” Tara’s name came out harsh. His father had been livid when he’d found out about the girl he’d thought would be a part of their family. About what she’d tried to do to Ben.
“Amanda’s different. She’s…well, she’s amazing.” His voice was wistful.
“I know.” His father gave him a soft smile.
“How do you know?”
“I get that look in my eyes when I think about your mother. From the first day we met, it was like that,” his father stopped and chuckled. They rarely talked about her. “That’s probably a lie. She didn’t like me at first. Said I teased her too much. Torment was the word she used. Couldn’t help it. I was drawn to her.” He shook his head, lost in the memory.
“Sounds like Amanda, except she pursued me,” Ben said.
“Glad you smartened up and let her catch you,”
“Maybe you’ll have to come to California and meet her.”
“Maybe I will. Now, tell me all about her. I hope she’s keeping you on your toes.”
“You have no idea.”
Ben’s chest tightened. For once he was sitting across from his father. The father he remembered, who he’d feared he’d lost forever fifteen years ago.
It was Amanda who’d brought him back. He’d wanted what his parents had for his entire life. Had it been in front of him, in the form of a pixie terror, for the last three months?
He wished he was flying home tonight.
Chapter 18
Walking through medieval streets that haven’t change in centuries. Brugge is a city
that held tight to its medieval roots. The stone-cobbled streets are uneven under my feet and the churches are stunning. Take your time when you’re here.
~ Adventurous Amanda, March 2014
Amanda sipped her Tom Collins as Ben serenaded her from the stage. Not that he was serenading just her. But that’s exactly what it felt like. He’d come home from his final regular season game, and something was different. Not that he’d said anything aside from enjoying dinner with his dad. But something was up with him.
He was smiling more than normal.
It was weird.
They’d won their first playoff game against Calgary the other night, and game two was tomorrow. He’d begged her to come to the club tonight.
Not that he’d had to beg that hard. Watching him play, whether it was on stage in a tight t-shirt and low slung jeans, or at his house with a guitar pressed to his bare chest and only a pair of thin sleep pants covering his body, was something she’d go miles to see.
His eyes were closed as he played, his lower lip sucked into his mouth, and she ached to jump on stage and nibble it back into view.
“Oh my God, there he is,” a shrill voice cut through the music.
“Holy shit, he’s hot. I can’t believe Cheesy plays the guitar,” another equally shrill voice pierced the bar. Ben’s eyes shot open, and he scanned the room. Amanda followed his gaze, halting on four women standing just inside the door.
It was too dark to spot the level of makeup troweled on, but they were definitely done up, and wearing what she was pretty sure were tight-fitting Strikers t-shirts. She didn’t remember seeing that version in the pro shop.
Definitely bunnies.
Amanda’s gaze darted back to Ben, and his eyes immediately met hers. He continued to play, but the intensity was gone. His guitar only emanated a superficial sound. Without him saying a word, she caught the frustration. His sanctuary was no longer just his and she wanted to scream at someone.
The women stalked closer to the stage, their whispers not whispers as they plopped down on chairs at the small bistro table closest to Ben. Chins propped up on their steepled hands, they watched him, twittering to each other, their eyes never leaving him.
She had no clue how to fix this, but it was only a matter of time before his secret was out. Secrets were bastards like that. Emerging when you least expected it. When you never wanted it.
“He’s amazing, right?” one woman said to the next.
“Yes. Can’t believe we didn’t know about this,” another one said as she held up her phone and snapped a picture of him. At the rate she was tapping, she’d have more than a dozen in seconds.
Amanda ached to rip the phone from the woman’s hands before the pictures inevitably found their way to every social media site. God, how long was his set?
As the women continued to gush through the next song, their twittering drowning out the amazing sounds emanating from the band on stage, Amanda watched Ben finish the song, and then turn to the band. A few words were spoken, and Carl stepped up to the mic.
“We’re going to take a quick break,” he said. Ben pulled the guitar over his head, causing another uproar as a tantalizing sliver of skin was revealed above the waistband of his jeans.
Not that she could blame their response, but what the actual fuck. She itched to march over to their table and tell them to shut the hell up.
The women inched closer to the stage as Ben stepped to the edge. And the gushing started right back up.
“I can’t believe we didn’t know you played here!” one said.
“Oh my God. Hi. Can I have your autograph?” one bunny said, thrusting her chest out toward him.
“Sorry, I don’t have a pen,” he said, pure panic in his eyes. Amanda didn’t know if she should go over there and try to extract him. He hopped off the stage, but he didn’t bolt. He was too nice.
“I do,” another bunny said, pulling it from her purse. “I can’t believe you’re also a musician. That’s so amazing. You were amazing.” The words were rapid fire, and he was sinking fast, his gaze darting around the bar.
“Hi,” Amanda said, sliding in next to him, her hand resting at the small of his back. He was wound so tight she feared he’d snap. “I’m Amanda. Ben’s girlfriend.” Sure, they hadn’t put a label on it yet, but she was going to. If only to save him.
That was a load of bullshit. She wanted that title. More than she’d realized until this very moment.
“Oh, we know who you are,” one of the bunnies scoffed. It was more of a sneer.
Oh, hell no. Were these women for real?
Ben gripped her hand, keeping her anchored at his side, and shot her a desperate look.
“So can I ask how you knew he’d be here?” she asked.
“A friend told us that we should check the place out. That they had the inside scoop that Cheesy played here. And that’s one hell of a scoop. I can’t believe you’re really here,” boob-thrusting bunny said, and batted her eyelashes.
Seriously?
“Did they say how they found out?” Ben asked. “It’s something I like to keep private.”
“You shouldn’t. Everyone should know about this place and you playing. It’s so awesome,” one said.
“Umm. Thanks, but I’d really like to know how you found out. It’s usually just locals here, and they don’t really care about hockey or me.”
He looked adorable, all sheepish and still panicked. She was a horrible person. Panicked people weren’t adorable.
“They mentioned your article,” one of the women said, turning to Amanda.
“What? He’s not even in the article.”
Two of them shrugged. “Whatever. They said to check the place out so they must’ve gotten the info somehow.”
“Can you ladies excuse us? Grab a drink and then I’ll sign those autographs when I get back,” he said, spinning and tugging Amanda with him around the edge of the bar and into Oscar’s back office.
Then he spun on her.
“What the hell, Amanda! You said no one would find out,” he barked out, and she flinched.
“Are you kidding me right now? I had nothing to do with this.” He must be joking. How could he…
“I’m not kidding. I didn’t tell anyone. I’ve kept this a secret for years, and then you waltz in, write an article, and now there are fucking bunnies in the club.”
Holy shit. She’d never seen him this angry, and the fact that he directed it at her when she had nothing to do with it pissed her the hell off.
“First of all, I never mentioned your name in the article. You read the damn article. There was nothing covert in my wording,” she bit out.
“And yet, here they are. Gushing, and staring, and wrecking this place for me.” He threw his hands in the air, raking one through his hair as he paced the small office.
“And I’m sorry about that, but this is not because of an article I wrote. There was nothing to tie it back to you.” Her cheeks heated with fury that he could so quickly jump to these insane conclusions.
“Then how do you explain this?” He glared at her. He fucking glared at her.
“I don’t know. Maybe a fan walked in here one night and saw you. Maybe a regular mentioned seeing you play. Maybe there are a shit ton of other reasons, but you’d rather pin the blame on me,” she fired back.
“There’s no other way that this got out. First the pictures of us popping up on social media, and now this.”
“Whoa. Seriously? You are a professional athlete. You don’t put yourself out there. And you’ve never dated anyone in public. At least not for years. Of course pictures are going to be taken of us. You want to blame me for that, too? Maybe I’m using you to advance my career? Maybe this was all a ruse to suit my purposes? Or maybe your assumptions are just that, assumptions. You know what they say about assuming? Those first three letters describe you to a tee right now,” she said through gritted teeth, and he stared at her.
His eyes widened. She’d hit a nerve
. Damn. Why hadn’t she researched him more? Or at least dug a little deeper than a quick Google search. And how the hell were things spiraling this quickly? This is what she got for thinking there was something more. That it was safe to hope for something more. Like trust. Like believing she wasn’t dating him for her own gain.
“This was my place. Where I could relax. Out of the public eye.”
“That’s such a load of shit. You are playing up on a stage. I don’t care how divey this bar is, anyone could walk in and see you, and recognize you. How did you believe that wasn’t a possibility?”
“Because it hasn’t happened. No one ever paid any attention to who I was when I was up on that stage. Until now. Until you.”
“You know what? This is ridiculous. I’m not going to argue with you over your delusions. I didn’t tell anyone about you playing here. Hell, I didn’t even tell my best friends that you played here. And on that note, why don’t your friends, your teammates, know that you play? Why can’t you let people in?” She scoffed a laugh. “Oh, that’s right. You only let certain people in and they only know certain things about you. How’s that feel? Is it lonely?”
She was being awful, but the words fell from her lips, and she was powerless to stop the verbal vitriol from spilling out.
This was the first time she’d tried. The first time she gave a shit. And he repaid her by freaking out the first chance he got.
“Amanda,” he started.
“No. Save it. I’m not interested in practiced words. You meant what you said. And you don’t trust me. How can this go any further if you can’t trust me?” She shook her head, and stepped away from the hand he’d just stretched toward her. “I have to go.”
“Amanda…”
“Good luck with the bunnies,” she said. “And I’m sorry that they ruined your sanctuary.” She couldn’t get out of that office—out of the bar—fast enough. She ducked her head down and walked straight for the front door, not taking a breath until it shut behind her and the brisk night air wrapped around her. She wanted to say that the cool breeze stole her warmth. But he’d done that with his accusations.
Skating the Line (San Francisco Strikers Book 2) Page 19
